


Slow Arrow

by pushtheheart



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agents of Fen'Harel, Character Study, F/M, Grief, Oppression, Personhood, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wisdom (character), autonomy, bad things happen a lot, exploration on how Solas's worldview shifted during his time with Lavellan and the Inquisition, gratuitous use of em dashes abound, heaps of angst, mature themes, okay maybe some major canon divergence, traumatic injuries, very dark at times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 192,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushtheheart/pseuds/pushtheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, terrible choices were all that remained. He knew that better than most. Still, his people fell for the one he had to make — to seal away the evanuris to prevent them from destroying the world — and centuries of wandering the Fade in dark and dreaming sleep had forced him to watch the world and its people diminish and die a slow, lingering death. </p><p>His path was set long before he ever woke, and he never thought to stray from it — until he met her.</p><p>An exploration of Solas's journey through an unfamiliar world, and its people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Immuration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic soundtrack: [Vol. 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DUNekBROyI&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlq9DSLE0GNPLDUsjQfdSQG) (Covers Chapters 1―3)

And then, of course, the end of the world happened.  
_―Justin Cronin, The Twelve_  
  
  
  


There was nothing before the darkness, only the nightmare creatures which chased her through it. Other less tangible forms writhed in the unfathomable black and watched her with silent, burning eyes.

A thick fog pressed in from every direction, disorienting her senses and choking the breath out of her lungs. The ground beneath her was nothing but loose rock and shale, and any sight of the landscape around her was lost in the impenetrable darkness. Each incline sent her tumbling and clawing for purchase. The nightmares were never far behind, grasping and clawing at her feet.

Time felt beyond her; she could not say how long she ran, or why she never tired.

Her mind was blank, filled only with fear and darkness. She couldn’t remember being a person. She couldn’t remember a time before this, couldn’t remember the how or the why or the what — only the darkness, and the things lurking within it.

She could only run, or be consumed.

And then, out of nothingness, the light reached for her.

Pain knotted in her shoulder and hip, where she lay on cold stone.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed from her, like an errant tide, bringing nothing with it but disorientation and fear.

Her arms were held away from her by a weight she could not lift. She flexed her fingers slowly.

She was acutely aware of a presence moving beside her, before she was rolled to lay flat on her back. A hand moved beneath her neck and lifted, just enough to elevate her head. Her eyelids were heavy with too much sleep, and she tried to blink away the bleariness to no avail. There was a light somewhere, low and flickering, and it stung at her sight. She couldn’t make out anything in the blur of darkness and the too-bright, but for the barely discernible shape of someone sitting over her.

Something cold pressed against her mouth.

“Drink,” a voice coaxed, in a tone so low and distant that it could have been a dream.

She felt the water trickle into her mouth, but she could not swallow it. Her throat felt too thick, too dry. She choked and coughed and turned her head away.

_Why are you trying to drown me?_

Her accusation caught in her throat, and all that she could manage was a strangled sound of protest.

The room began to spin and lurch around her, and the figure gave no answer as she sank back down into the nightmare ebb of inexplicable terrors.

She was lost again to the darkness, running through an unfathomable landscape with nameless horrors at her heels. Further and further, until the landscape shifted upward in an endless incline.

The abominations had taken the shape of massive arachnids, chittering and screeching and almost upon her.

She scrambled frantically, toward the one fixed point of hope in the dark ahead of her — a figure clothed in light, reaching for her.

She threw herself forward, hand outstretched in desperation.

It took hold, and then the whole world split open around her.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Tephra woke with a jolt.

Darkness and silence pressed in around her.

Her mind felt fragmented, as she reached for the nearest memory and found nothing but the empty space where something had been hollowed out. Her head throbbed. She focused instead on the most immediate available information to her ― the heavy, cold grasp of metal at her wrists; the raw ache of hunger in the pit of her stomach; abject thirst.

She had been taken prisoner, but ― why? And by whom?

From the ache in her bones, and by the measure of her bodily needs, she could only that she’d been unconscious for several days, at the very least.

Rolling from her side, stiff and cold, Tephra sat slowly and stared at the barred shackles that had been placed on her. It did not take long for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, and despite her disorientation, she took stock of her surroundings.

The room was larger than a standard prison cell, but aside from the stonework and pillars, it was free of any furnishings. There wasn’t even a cot for sleeping.

It took considerable effort to get to her feet.

The muscles in her legs cramped and tightened with each movement, and her joints ached something awful.

It came as no surprise that she’d been stripped of her armor and weapons. They’d at least left her the coat she wore, had even gone so far to put it back on her after removing her armor. Yet even with it on, the chill of the prison had settled deep in her bones.

There was no sign of her traveling pack, either.

A sudden panic gripped her, as she brought her hands up to her chest. The manacles made using them awkward and clumsy. She felt underneath her coat, down beneath her shirt. When her fingers found the small object resting against her sternum, she felt a sudden wash of relief. Her captors hadn’t bothered to take it. Though, truly, why would they bother with it? It wasn’t a weapon or anything of value, at least not to them, but to her it was priceless.

Tephra ran her fingertips over the familiar curl of the shell; the movement was soothing, and steadied her nerves and focused her mind.

She stepped lightly toward the far wall, where the moonlight shone in through small barred windows. She took great care to move silently, as there were certainly guards posted outside the cell. She did not care to rouse their attention before she could figure out an escape.

The windows were almost out of reach, but when she stood on the balls of her feet she could reach the windowsill. It took great effort to pull herself up far enough to grab the bars which prevented escape. Tephra hung there in a crouch, boots braced against the wall, scanning what little she could see outside the window. The cell was located in the basement of a building that overlooked a small town, which was largely dark but for scattered campfires and the torch lights of patrolling templars in the darkness.

Where had she been taken?

Tephra reached back before the nothing in her memory, and was met with sudden clarity.

She had studied various maps of the areas surrounding the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the event that she needed to flee for any reason. She was in no danger for being mistaken for a mage, but there were always reasons to be found by the humans for detaining elves.

There were numerous townships and farmlands in the foothills of the Frostbacks, in the vicinity of the temple. She could have been taken to any one of them, for all it mattered. They were all human settlements, and deeply Andrastian. If they believed she killed the Divine, nothing she could say in her defense would matter. She was foreigner with no proof of Ferelden or Orlesian citizenship, and her ears alone were enough to condemn her to most humans.

Everything had been so much simpler, before she’d been recruited for this mission. The memories washed back with ease, as the fog of incapacitation lifted.

She’d been sleeping in a mossy tree when the fledgling scouts found her.

They had just been youths — skinny little reeds with bows and swords, playing at adulthood. They’d tossed crabapples up at her until she woke, and informed her that she was being summoned to the Keeper, who in turn sent her away on a mission to surveil the historical meeting between templar and mage forces seeking a resolution ― an end to the conflict. She’d been specifically chosen for her penchant for not being found, unless she meant to be.

She remembered it all ― leaving her clan for Ostwick, and taking the ferry to Highever. She’d never crossed the Waking Sea before, but the sight of the dark waters and the sea birds only reminded her of him. She remembered how anxious she’d been in the human cities before finally disappearing off into the Coastlands. She remembered how elated and excited she had been to be traveling across Ferelden, without having ever stepped foot in the country before. She had largely avoided conflict, and the trip had been remarkably peaceful. There had even been time for leisurely study along the way — documenting unfamiliar plants, as well as ones related to those she was familiar with, and collecting the seeds of useful edibles for medicinal and agricultural uses later. She remembered it all — the weeks of traveling, of sleeping in trees and caves and ruins. All of it, right up to the clever perch she’d found overlooking the Temple of Sacred Ashes, as she watched the forces march in.

After that, it was as though a void had swallowed up the rest of her recent memories.

The straining ache of her upper body pulled Tephra out of her thoughts, and she let herself down to the floor slowly.

There was no way she could fit through the narrow windows, even if she could somehow dislodge the bars. Not without breaking bones to ease her passage, at least.

She turned her attention to examining the rest of her cell, for anything that might aid her escape. She’d only taken a few steps when an odd pressure in her left palm caught her attention.

Tephra flexed the hand and studied it closely, but could see no wound, no bruising, nothing to explain the sudden discomfort. When she turned her palm, there was, suddenly, _something_ ― almost like a trick of the light.

A shimmering seam that ran from the crux of her middle and ring finger clear across to her wrist.

It was so faint, she was certain that her eyes were playing tricks on her.

The pressure subsided for a moment, before it flared again, more strongly. The muscles seemed to twist upon themselves, like a cramp. She swallowed a hiss of pain as she made a fist.

When her hand erupted into green fire, Tephra screamed.

Panicked, she scrambled backward and fell against the wall. She sank to the floor as she shook her arm wildly, trying to put the fire out.

After a moment, it sputtered and snuffed out. She was shocked to find the skin unburnt.

The seam remained, and the shimmering was more pronounced. Like iridescent, glowing ink stained across her skin. When she rubbed at it with her thumb, it did not rub away. It was magic, of some form—but she was no mage.

So then where had it come from?

As she gaped at her hand, there was a scrape of metal at the door. A small window opened, and light pooled in around the shape of someone’s head.

“She’s awake,” a gruff voice stated, before the metal panel shut again with a resounding snap.

Moments later, the door opened and two guards entered. She grimaced at the sudden brightness of their torches, and brought her hands up defensively. The green fire dancing across her hand shivered, and snuffed out. The brief sight of it caused the men to fall back a step. They were human, wary and haggard, and their uniforms identified them as chantry men — _templars_.

What was she doing in a chantry prison cell?

“I can’t believe this knife-ear bitch killed the Divine,” one guard remarked, almost lazily.

The other man growled, “She killed them _all_.” He spat at her. “Mage and templar alike.”

A strange ringing started in her ears as cold disbelief washed over her.

Did they mean the Conclave? She’d been sent to observe, not to interfere ― let alone kill anyone. How could they possibly think she had anything to do with whatever happened?

What _had_ happened, and why couldn’t she remember any of it?

More templars idled at the door, craning to get a look at her. The looked at her with a mix of morbid curiosity and disgust, and their silence offered no clarification.

They separated suddenly, making way for the Knight-Commander. She knew enough of templars to recognize the difference in their uniforms and ranks. He was a tall, sturdy man with hard eyes. He regarded her impassively, before saying, “Have word sent to Seeker Pentaghast.”

“The Seeker’s a day out, evacuating the farmlands. What are we supposed to do with her until then?”

“Keep your distance,” the Knight-Commander replied simply, as if the answer were self-evident. “Maker only knows what she’s capable of.”

The guard who’d spit at her scoffed, “She’s in irons, sir. I’d sooner start breaking her in for the spymaster.”

The other guard laughed, and asked, “And who will keep your wife warm at night after we scrape up what’s left of you off the floor, Karsten?”

Tephra struggled to pull herself forward off the wall and onto her knees. She tried to speak but her throat was raw with thirst, and all she managed was a dry rasp.

“Someone get her some fucking water,” the Knight-Commander barked. “Everyone else, _out_. Show’s over.”

Tephra tried once more to ask what had happened, but her voice caught in her throat. She’d only begun to cough when the Knight-Commander rounded on her and slammed an armor-bound fist into the side of her head. It sent her sprawling to the floor. The heavy manacles impeded her ability to catch herself, so her shoulder took the brunt of the fall. She stayed where she fell, bent over herself, shoulder and head resting on the floor. She swallowed the sounds of her pain and let it turn to cold fury in the pit of her stomach.

“Keep silent, demon. Or I will let them have you,” the Knight-Commander growled, before turning on his heel and exiting the cell. The others followed suit, and the heavy door slammed behind them.

_Demon?_

As if in response, the mark on her hand flared to life. A sudden burst of crackling energy sprang from her palm. It danced like verdant fire, but did not burn the skin. The pain came from somewhere deeper, as though it nested in the marrow of her bones. Again, the terrified screams tore themselves from her throat.

A guard banged on the door, and shouted, “Keep it down!”

The sound of her horror died in her throat, leaving only the rawness of thirst. The magic sparked and danced in her palm, before slipping away again to hide inside her hand. She could still feel it there, unseen ― a deep, pulsing ache. She could only wonder at what had happened, and what was continuing to happen to her as the magic burned inside her palm.

When she got to her feet, there was a disturbance at the door. Voices argued loudly, but even though she strained her ears, she could not discern its nature through the thick metal and stone that lay between. She turned away from it, and busied herself with walking the perimeter of the cell.

There had to be something — _anything_.

No space was inescapable. Not to her.

As she walked, she worried at the manacles, straining and tugging and curling her wrists to scratch at the metal uselessly. It accomplished nothing, but to leave marks and raw rings on her wrists.

Tephra lost count of how many times she circled the room in a slow orbit, searching every crevice for a means of escape. She scrabbled against the stone, finding purchase in the smallest of cracks to lift herself, to search each dark corner, and yet found nothing. No loose stones or bars, no little rabbit holes to wriggle through. All she managed to gain from her efforts was a collection of bruises and scrapes.

The door gave a jolt as the lock unlatched.

Tephra dropped down from the windows. She’d been pulling at the bars again, trying to pry them loose. She moved to stand in the center of the cell and waited. There was nothing to do, nowhere to hide; all she could do was wait for an opportunity to present itself.

The door swung open and the one called Karsten sauntered in. He was young and lanky, with a mess of red hair falling out from beneath his helmet. He gave her a smug smile as he stepped toward her with a large flagon of water. He held it out to her almost casually. “Thirsty, are we?”

Tephra kept her silence, and watched him warily.

With a slow turn of his wrist, he upended the flagon and let the water splatter across the floor. “Go ahead, then,” he sneered, and gestured at the puddle. “Isn’t that how your kind likes it? All natural-like?”

Karsten gave a bark of laughter and turned on his heel, and left her there. The door shut loudly, before the silence settled in again.

Tephra pridefully ignored the water despite her thirst, and moved back to the windows. She was too tired to try the bars again.

The light in her hand shimmered and pulsed and ached. The mark ran the length of her palm, but the light came from within and shone through both sides of her hand. Mirrored, marked _through_ , as though a splinter of magic had somehow embedded itself inside of her. And with each throbbing ache, it seemed to grow brighter, and wider.

_Whatever happened, it’s because of this._

The thought shivered through her mind coldly.

In a sudden burst of anger, Tephra slammed the cursed hand against the wall. And then again. In her anger, she felt nothing until the fourth strike. Then the pain came crashing over her senses, as she sank down against the wall. It throbbed fiercely, but she did not cry out. Instead, a strange calmness settled over her.

 _The cloak_.

It was the obvious means of escape, but she could not use it in her current condition — not well enough, at least. She needed to recoup enough strength to last however long it took for her to find her way outside of the prison, as well as to flee the town unnoticed. For that, she needed to rest, however much she could on the freezing stone floor.

In the mean time, she _listened_. Between the long stretches of silences, she could hear the movements of the guards ― when they changed shifts, when and where they patrolled, how often they stopped and idled outside her door at any given time.

She rested against the wall with her knees drawn to her chest, and put a hand to her sternum. It was nothing more than a moon snail shell tethered on a leather cord; they hadn’t taken it from her when they stripped her armor. Perhaps they hadn’t even noticed it. She ran her finger along the curl of it repetitively, and was calmed by the movement.

It was a small source of comfort amidst everything.

When she finally drifted to sleep with her head laid down on her knees, she dreamt of him.

He’d always been so small and always running ahead of her. She had always been cautious for the both of them, so it gave him the freedom to be fearless. She had been too young to see the danger in it, and there had been no one else to teach them otherwise.

But this time was different.

The woods were dark, almost sinister. A deep, tenebrous fog was rolling in. The boy darted ahead, losing himself among the looming trees. Tephra gave chase, but the grass soon gave way to shale, and the trees fell away into darkness.

He was gone, and in his absence the nightmares returned to give chase.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Solas had to admit that there was a certain elegance in failing so spectacularly.

The resulting spiral of events had happened so quickly that it had been impossible to personally intervene. He had anticipated that the magister’s methods in unlocking the orb might result in a few regrettable sacrifices — specifically, his own. Perhaps even a good portion of his followers, which would have made retrieving it once more that much simpler.

But this?

He had not anticipated the events at the Conclave. The destruction and loss of life had been far beyond his expectations.

And, yet ― what happened, happened.

Despite his predictions, the Elder One endured. His agents had sighted the magister’s retreat after the initial explosion, but how he’d managed to avoid obliteration still eluded Solas.

Had the Elder One intended to bind the Anchor to one of his own, or to himself? Had he meant to catastrophically damage the Veil, or was it a byproduct of a design gone terribly wrong? Had he simply meant to enter the Fade himself, and if so, for what purpose?

There was much left to speculation in the absence of crucial information.

Desperation had driven him to act with haste in choosing the magister to open his orb, knowing it would still be a considerable amount of time until he’d have the strength to do it himself, all while the quickened world hastened on to its inevitable end. There was precious little left to save now, as it were, and less than so if he waited and did not act — if any at all.

He had been aware of the Venatori before waking, as well as their enigmatic leader who called himself the “Elder One”. But it was only after waking that he’d allowed the cult to stumble upon his Orb, when it became clear that he was too weak to unlock it himself. There was no certainty that the magister would be strong enough to, either, but the possibility of success — and his own desperation — was enough for him to allow the attempt. It had been a surprisingly easy endeavor for his agents, as the Elder One was already seeking texts and artifacts pertaining to the Veil, and magic which could theoretically manipulate it and allow passage through it. Whispered rumors of the Orb and its power had been enough to bait the Venatori into a frenzy, and send them searching for it.

The Orb, however, had been fashioned for him, and no other.

It could, theoretically, be unlocked and manipulated by another — with enough magic and hubris, just about anything could be.

He’d followed the Venatori’s studies and experiments as closely as he could, scouring their minds and memories while they slept. While the Elder One’s dreaming mind eluded him — he expected the magister concocted sleeping draughts to block his dreaming from prying spirits — Solas still learned much from his followers. When they eventually settled on a ritual involving sacrifice to unlock the Orb, he knew that casualties were to be expected.

But something had gone awry during the ritual — the culmination of which had resulted in a catastrophic explosion which had torn the sky open, causing spirits to tumble out of the Fade. Torn viciously from their peaceful existence, and fatally drawn through the Veil. The ones which did not die outright from shock were inevitably corrupted by the trauma of the event.

The sudden influx of demons kept the humans scrambling and disoriented. The explosion from the Breach had decimated the Temple of Sacred Ashes and battered surrounding villages, which resulted in the deaths of not only thousands of templars and mages and civilians, but also a widely revered religious figurehead. The death of Divine Justinia was already causing an almost immediate destabilization of power and unrest in Thedas, as word continued to spread.

If the Breach could not be stabilized, the world would fall.

He had not meant for this outcome, but those deaths were laid at his feet all the same.

And the poor fool who’d happened to receive the Anchor had _survived_ ― not only the process of being marked with a power not meant for them, but also somehow managed to survive being pulled physically into the Fade and then out once more. Survived, only to be arrested and left to languish in a chantry cell, in a township on the edge of rioting. None of the people here had any idea what had happened, only that _something_ had, and the only survivor of the event had done the impossible — had walked the Fade, and survived.

It was no surprise that they would blame her, and the people were all but screaming for her blood.

Physical beings were not adapted to existing — let alone surviving — in the Fade, as it was now. If demons did not claim them, or the physical hazards of traversing the landscape, dehydration or starvation certainly would. Just as it was for spirits, being drawn through the Veil was often enough to kill them outright. And yet, for three days she had endured, clinging to what life remained in her. It was remarkable that she’d survived at all, but he was not optimistic her luck would last much longer.

She had regained consciousness, but for a moment, and even that fleeting hope had snatched itself away when she choked on the water he’d given her before passing out once more. And then she was gone again, lost to nightmares, her mind stuck on a loop of her last moments in the Fade.

During that time, the mark seared further and further up her palm, deeper into her being. Born of the orb, the Anchor was his own power singing back to him. A vein of light that ran like a scar across her skin — a hole torn through her being, much like the hole torn through the sky. As the Breach cracked wider, so did the mark. At this pace, it would not take long for her to succumb.

No matter how much magic he poured into it to slow its progression, she would not wake. And in his current weakened state, he could not reclaim the mark from her any more than he’d been capable of unlocking his own damnable orb. The magic ― _his_ magic ― was attempting to merge with her spirit, as it was meant to with his. Any further attempt to unbind the Anchor would certainly result in her immediate death.

One more to add to the many in his wake, but there was no time now for him to dwell on his regrets — let alone the death of a lesser being.

Still, there was no precedent for this.

Spirits he might have consulted on the matter had fled outright in the wake of the Breach, and no matter how many times he studied the mark, any possible solution not resulting in her death eluded him. His only tenuous hypothesis was that if he could manage to stabilize the Breach, then perhaps the Anchor as well would become stable. Though at best, she would only have a fistful of time left ― a year, perhaps two. If she survived, though, he could make use of the Anchor while she lived and guide her in sealing rifts and repairing the Breach, and buy himself time to regain his strength to reclaim it safely.

But no matter the route; in the end, she would die. It was an unavoidable truth; none could bear the Anchor and live.

_A slow arrow, indeed._

He knew nothing of her beyond her inevitable fate. As far as he could surmise, she was of no particular importance, or prestige. She’d simply stumbled into something beyond herself, and she would die for it without ever knowing why.

She was simply another regrettable footnote in a long list of transgressions tied into a design that was beyond his failing. If he could restore the world and its people to what it was, to what it should be — then perhaps he could find, in some way, some sense of redemption. Perhaps not peace, but something close enough.

There was no path, but forward.

His agents had spotted her when she drew near the Conclave, despite however unseen she had thought herself to be. At the time, he had not thought intervention necessary. He’d simply found himself amused that she had been curious enough to spy on the matters at hand, being seemingly unaffiliated to either of the attending forces. He’d been surprised that she had been there at all, given that the Dalish cared little for worldly affairs outside their own clans. A curiosity at best, and dismissed easily. His focus had been entirely on the events unfolding, as he prepared himself to claim his power once more. But after the explosion, after the sky tore open, his agents heard talk of a woman walking out of the Fade and being arrested by the chantry. The sole survivor, and the only witness to the events that had unfolded there.

A Dalish elf, of course.

The irony that he’d dismissed the anamolous nature of her prescence there, and her resulting significance, was not lost on him

Approaching the chantry had been a risk, but there were no alternatives. He’d surrendered his staff and offered his services, and in exchange the Seeker had permitted him access to the woman.

However, it was conditional access and he’d yet to provide results. The woman remained unconscious, despite his efforts, and for it the Seeker grew more suspicious of him and his true agenda.

At times, her face contorted, pulling at the vallaslin that marked her forehead, and he could sense the nightmares which plagued her. As though she were stuck there, in the Fade, repeating the events of what happened before she tumbled out and into the custody of the Haven chantry. He could not pull her from her nightmares, but he did what he could to stem their tide when her heart rate grew too erratic. The magic he poured into her would calm her, for a time.

The vallaslin on her forehead marked her for Ghilan’nain. A deliberate choice, perhaps, in that the woman favored the common artistic depiction of the goddess with her thick white hair and coltish figure — an aesthetic which reflected the Evanuris’s favor for the halla. Few remained who remembered the false god’s true face, and how none of the art came close to conveying her true nature. In modern artwork, she was placid and benevolent. Meek, even. A laughable notion, given that he’d personally watched the terrors born of the Evanuris’s frighteningly inventive mind.

No, the woman’s face was her own. In that regard, she looked nothing like Ghilan’nain.

Still, however far-removed and diminished the link, it still surprised him how much she and her kind resembled the People. Smaller, more wiry, but with a striking face that was at once familiar and other. Lovely, even, but marked nonetheless ― a _Dalish_ woman.

The word sat uncomfortably in his mouth, sour and sharp, like bile. He’d had long-since had his fill of the Dalish.

Still, he could not help but feel for her. She had not asked for fate to intervene so unkindly. Though as to _why_ she had been at the Conclave in the first place remained a mystery. Perhaps she’d been sent by her Keeper, or perhaps she’d just been curious. Given the current situation, he found it unlikely that he would ever find out the truth.

He’d all but given up when she finally stirred, hours before daybreak on the third day.

He had already gathered his gear and extinguished most of the candles that he’d been allowed to bring into the cell when that small movement of her hands froze him in place. He’d drawn her up from the floor and put a flagon of water to her mouth. He could just barely make out her face in the dark, but he could see the questions swimming in her dark eyes. She had shown not simply consciousness, but awareness — and then she had turned her face away, coughing as she refused the water.

A minor setback, but it had been enough to set him off to go prepare healing salves, to promote wakefulness and alertness.

She would live, and that simple fact gave him hope.

On his return, while crossing the courtyard, he’d heard her screams. He had nearly dropped the bag of supplies in his haste to reenter the chantry, only to find one too many templars idling outside the cell. They barred his entry and informed him that he’d done his job ― the prisoner lived. He was no longer needed to tend to her. He’d attempted to reason with them — however sharply — but it had not swayed them. Keeper Pentaghast was away from Haven, and in her absence the templars grew restless and would not heed him despite having been ordered to do so in regards to his patient. Fighting them would have accomplished little, and fleeing with her in her current state would have surely hastened her death.

He had no choice but to leave her there, for the time being.

“Well, aren’t you the chatty sort?”

Solas cradled a mug of hot ale between his hands, enjoying its warmth, if not its contents. He was not in the mood for even casual inebriation. The dwarf ― Varric Tethras ― had ordered it for him as a consolation. He wasn’t sure how long he’d lapsed into silence, having been so consumed with the matters at hand. Solas cleared his throat, “Forgive me, Master Tethras. It has been some time since I have been in a tavern. My manners have escaped me.”

“Don’t worry, Chuckles. I’ve no doubt Cassandra’s hauling ass back here as we speak. You’ll be able to play healer again soon enough,” the dwarf said, while scribbling furiously in a leather-bound book.

“If she survives that long, perhaps,” Solas remarked.

There was a long pause from the dwarf, before he asked, “So, you just _happened_ to be in the area when all of this went down?”

Solas lifted his gaze from his neglected drink to regard the dwarf seated across from him. Despite his amiable disposition, Varric’s eyes were sharp as a hawk’s, and equally shrewd.

“Sky tears open, demons fall out ― and then a Fade expert just happens to show up on the chantry’s doorstep?” Varric closed the book he’d been writing in, and folded his arms over it. “A bit too good to be true, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say it was fortuitous, myself,” Solas replied, unfazed by the dwarf’s scrutiny. “I imagine it does seem rather suspect, but as I’ve said before ― I was simply curious to see the outcome of the negotiations. Apostate that I am, you can appreciate that I had a vested interest in the outcome.”

Varric gave a gravelly laugh, “True enough.”

There was a sudden commotion at the back of the tavern.

“Now what in the void is this shit? Are you serious?”

Solas turned in his chair to see the tavern keeper berating a pair of templar soldiers. The wiry old man crossed his arms tightly across his chest, as he frowned at the younger men.

“Commander’s orders, Vern,” one said, almost apologetically. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring your buckets back soon.”

The old man threw his hands up in vexation before going and retrieving a stack of large metal buckets from the storage room behind his bar. As he handed them off to the soldiers, he asked, “What’s he got you poor sods doing, scrubbing floors again?”

The pair divided the buckets among themselves, as the first soldier replied offhandedly, “It’s the prisoner. Says she’s refusing water.”

The other soldier sniggered, “Karsten means to make her drink.”

The first soldier shot the other a dirty look, before saying, “Don’t mind him, Vern. We’ll get your buckets back to you in a few hours.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Varric remarked, under his breath.

Solas watched the soldiers leave the tavern with the empty buckets. A cold dread settled in the pit of his stomach. “No, it does not,” he agreed.

He stood, and followed after.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


“Get her up.”

Tephra jolted awake as she was pulled bodily to her feet. She was dragged before the Knight-Commander, who was regarding her dispassionately.

Karsten was at his side, speaking hastily, “I’m telling you, sir. She refused to drink. She knocked the pitcher right out of my hands.”

She frowned sharply at the lying templar, who in return afforded her a cruel smile.

“It serves nothing if she dies on us before Seeker Pentaghast returns,” the Knight-Commander sighed. With a dismissive wave of his armored hand, he added, “Make her drink, then— however you must.”

The hands holding her captive tightened as she was forced to her knees. Dread sat heavy in her stomach

“I’m leaving it in your hands, Karsten. Chastise her if you must, but keep her alive,” the Knight-Commander ordered, clearly disinterested in handling the matter himself.

As the higher-ranked templar exited the cell, the others closed in around her, forming a loose circle. Dread clutched tightly in her chest, as she defiantly kept her face still and free of fear.

Karsten gave a short, sharp whistle. Two of the guards peeled off and exited the cell, before quickly returning with heavy buckets in tow. Water sloshed from them with each step. After they set them down, the left to retrieve more.

“Let’s show this knife-ear bitch how we treat prisoners who refuse our hospitality,” Karsten said, pulling a dark bit of cloth from a pocket in his uniform.

Tephra knew immediately what the templars meant to do to her. She’d heard of this technique before.

She got her feet under her and kicked off the ground, and threw her weight back against the men behind her. She snapped the back of her head into his face, who cried out in pain as her skull smashed into his nose. He released his hold on her, cursing and stumbling to the side as he grasped at his bleeding nose. She didn’t give the other one time to react. She brought her elbow up into the soft underside of his neck, which had been left unguarded. One swift strike to the apple of throat sent him buckling to the ground, coughing and gagging.

Her freedom was short-lived.

Tephra had just begun to spin on her heel for the door when an arm went around her neck, pulling her off balance and choking the breath out of her until she began to go limp. The guard shoved her back down to her knees, and knelt behind her. He released her long enough to pull her arms back by the biceps, so that her forearms were pinned to her chest by the manacles. His knee dug into her spine as he forced her to arch her torso, as another templar knelt and shoved a hood over head. The movement forced her head to snap back, and the templar’s grip held her there no matter how she struggled.

Before she could utter a sound of protest, they began pouring water over her head in a slow and steady stream.

Panic set in immediately.

At first, she held her breath as long as she could as she shook her head, trying to move her face away from the water, but another pair of hands took hold of her by the jaw and the back of her head to keep her still. What little she could struggle was useless, as they held her effectively in place.

And the water kept coming.

Her lungs began to burn, until she could no longer stop herself. She gasped and immediately started choking as water entered her lungs. Their laughter was distant over the din of her own heartbeat crashing in her ears. The sense of terror and panic that swelled over her was absolute.

The water stopped suddenly and the hood was yanked off her head. Tephra sputtered and coughed violently, retching water. Her chest burned as she strained to get air into her lungs with ragged breaths.

“Looks like she still ain’t drinking,” one of the templars observed, in a mocking tone. “She’s still spitting it out.”

Had they all gone insane?

Tephra’s eyes darted between the soldiers, looking for ― what? There wasn’t a shred of remorse or pity to be found between them. At best, there was apathy. At worst ― outright glee.

Karsten squatted before he, smiling in an almost friendly fashion as he asked, “Do we need to go again, or are you gonna play nice?”

She spat in his face.

The guard holding her jaw let go just in time to avoid Karsten’s armored fist. It slammed into her mouth and she felt the bottom lip split. She refused to cry out in pain, and simply spat blood on the floor.

The hood snapped over her head again.

As she struggled, the guard behind her threw his arm around her neck again and pulled tight. She had just enough time to take a breath before the water came again. She tried to hold her breath, but she was already weakening. Her legs kicked uselessly against the stone floor.

 _This is what he felt when he died,_ she thought, dimly.

Was this how she was going to die, too?  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Solas came to a skidding halt outside the prison cell where the Dalish woman was being kept. The door was open and the cell was filled with chantry men.

They were grouped around her, hooting with laughter. A hood had been placed over her head. One soldier held the woman captive in a chokehold, while another slowly poured a bucket of water over her head. Two of the buckets had already been emptied. The woman’s legs kicked wildly against the stone floor.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

His outburst cut through the room effectively.

Most of the men staggered back from the restrained woman, as if they’d been caught like naughty children picking on a small animal. The soldier holding the bucket dropped it; it landed in a crash, spilling its contents unceremoniously. Another guard pulled the hood off the woman, before backing away from her sheepishly.

She coughed violently, struggling to catch her breath. The soldier crouched behind her did not release his hold on her, and kept her locked in a chokehold. Her large, dark eyes bore into Solas ― a silent plea for help.

“You’ve done your job, apostate,” one of the templars barked. Young, red-haired ― human. This one was clearly the instigator of this act of abuse, the one named Karsten. “Unless you prefer to be in irons as well, you’d do well to remember that you’ve been dismissed until further notice.”

“If you kill her, you will have doomed us all,” Solas warned, attempting to appeal to their base survival instincts. “Surely you are not that foolish!”

Hypothesizing to the Seeker of what the mark on the prisoner’s hand could accomplish — knowing full well the Anchor’s purpose — had been the only thing keeping the humans from killing the elf outright. He reminded the humans of it often, no matter how uncertain he was that she would survive long enough to try — or that she would be capable of using the Anchor at all.

“Get him out of here!”

Several of the men moved to intervene, but were stopped short when another soldier came running down the long hall, shouting, “Seeker Pentaghast has returned!”

Relief washed through him. However suspicious she was of him, what short time he’d spent with the Seeker had assured him that she was level-headed and practical when it came to the prisoner.

“Shall we greet her together, then?” Solas asked, his tone whetted to a deadly edge. “I’m sure the Seeker awaits a detailed report on the prisoner’s well-being.”

The soldier’s face went as red as his hair. “Everyone out! Back to your posts!” he barked.

The chantry men filed out past Solas. None of them would meet his gaze.

The woman remained on her knees on the floor, hunched over, soaked and shaking. Her dark eyes were furious. Blood ran in a stark line from her mouth, down over her throat.

Before he could say a word to her, the prison door was slammed shut by Karsten. He stepped between Solas and the door, and warned, “You’re done here, apostate. Leave now, or you will be forcibly removed.”

“You will be held accountable for your actions here,” Solas assured. If not by the Chantry itself, some other means would surely present itself.

“Keep pissing in the wind, knife-ear,” the soldier spat, and shoved past him.

Swallowing his fury, Solas followed the soldiers out of the prison. There was nothing he could do for her, just now. But the Seeker was here now, nothing would happen to the woman on her watch — of that, he was reasonably certain.

Outside of the chantry, a light sunshower had begun to fall. A good portion of the chantry soldiers had already made contact with the Seeker. Townspeople cluttered together in groups at a distance, spectating and speculating among themselves. Their anger and fear was palpable. The Seeker was flanked by her spymaster, and the ex-templar who Pentaghast had appointed as Commander of her personal forces.

As he approached, Solas caught the tail-end of one soldier’s scrambling answers to whatever probing question the Seeker had posed.

“―hasn’t disclosed any information about herself, or why she was at the temple.” The soldier shifted from one leg to the other, nervously.

"We’ve had a hell of a time just keeping her alive. She’s practically feral. She’s been refusing to drink water,” Karsten added.

Anger flashed in him. The image of the soldiers mistreating the prisoner was seared fresh in his mind ― her furious eyes. The fear that’d radiated from her had washed over him in waves. He knew nothing of her, and yet in that moment he knew that drowning was a deeply rooted, primal fear of hers. That it was tied to something she’d experienced in the past and that it had marked her for life. After such treatment, the odds of gaining her trust and cooperation seemed an insurmountable task — if not entirely impossible.

"Of course she has," Solas spoke up sharply behind them. “Did you expect _forcing_ it upon her would procure a different outcome?”

“What would you have us do? Let her die of thirst? She wouldn’t even take it from _you_ , elf, ” the red-haired soldier snapped. Despite his anger, the soldier lacked his previous boldness of using _knife-ear_ , at least in the Seeker’s presence.

Solas bristled, straightening to his full height over the shorter man, “Drowning her is not―”

“ _Enough!_ ”

Cassandra Pentaghast’s voice cracked like a whip. Her face was tight with irritation, as she said, “I was told she was unharmed.”

“She became combative,” the red-haired soldier replied, almost sheepishly.

“Most would, after such poor treatment,” Solas remarked, sharply.

Karsten withered under Seeker Pentaghast’s hard stare, and averted his gaze. “Commander Cullen, if you would.”

The Commander seized the man by the collar of his armor and hauled him bodily away, reciting a litany of Andrastian and templar vows on the decent and humane treatment of people in their charge.

Cassandra turned her attention back to him, and said, “Another rift has opened, just beyond the hunting cabins to the west. I was told of it upon arrival. A squadron has been sent ahead, but I am sure they will have need your assistance.”

“Of course,” Solas replied, automatically.

He could not press the issue of the prisoner’s wellbeing, not with the immediate threat of a rift. She was awake and alive; that would have to do, for now.

Varric Tethras stood not far off, thick arms folded tight against his chest as he watched the entirety of the exchange unfold.

“Varric will accompany you. I have already arranged for both of your weapons to be released to you at the gates,” the Seeker added. It was clear she meant to be rid of them so that she could focus on interrogating the prisoner.

Without further word, Pentaghast and the spymaster left him there and entered the chantry. The other templars milling about began to depart, as well as the villagers.

“Well, that was entertaining,” the dwarf piped up beside him.

Solas had not noticed his approach.

Varric gave him an uneasy look, “Do I even want to know what they were doing to her?”

“I believe the humans refer to it simply as water torture,” he replied.

Varric grimaced.

“You can’t discount the creativity humans have when it comes to shit like that,” the dwarf remarked, his tone edged with disgust. The dwarf gave rough sigh as he peered at the small, barred windows that lined the chantry foundation. He gave a short huff, and asked, “So is she, then?”

Solas shot the dwarf a curious glance. “Is she what, Master Tethras?”

“Feral.”

As if summoned, there was movement at one of the windows.

Two small hands stretched between the bars, reaching for the rain. Despite the distance, Solas could see the state of her hands. The manacles had ravaged her wrists in her struggles to free herself. And the hand that held the mark was swollen, bruised and bleeding.

Had the templars done that to her, or had she done it to herself in an attempt to remove the mark?

The hands retreated, cupped together with rainwater.

A small act of defiance.

Solas felt an odd thrill of admiration. It stirred from some deep corner of his sleeping self, that had not been moved to that particular feeling in a long time.

“Perhaps she is,” he replied, amused.

“Well, we got orders, Chuckles,” Varric said, motioning toward the small group of soldiers awaiting them.

Solas followed. An odd optimism had bloomed in the pit of his gut, and he stepped lighter than he had in days.

Varric shot him a curious glance, “Do you really think she can close it? In her state? Or at all?”

“We must keep hope, Master Tethras,” Solas replied.  
  
  
  


  _―_ _―_ _―_  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was gratuitously long and fixated on the imprisonment of the future Inquisitor because, well, I am a glutton for that sort of thing. Also, I think it a shame that we didn't see more of it to begin with in the game.
> 
> This fic will follow the general plot of DA:I, but with some departures from canon, as well as tweaked dialogue in many places to avoid monotony or to (hopefully) improve the syntax. Chapters containing mature themes will be marked as such as they come.


	2. A Hole In The World

The world's in a bad way, my man,  
And bound to be worse before it mends.  
— _Robinson Jeffers, The Stars Go Over The Lonely Oceans_  
  
  
  


In the darkness, time crawled.

With her back to the wall, Tephra remained crouched and poised on the balls of her feet — waiting.

The templars would be changing shifts soon.

By her estimate, they changed every two hours. And each hour, they checked in on her through the small window in the door. With each change of guard at the end of their shift, the door was opened and a soldier would take stock of her, before the door was shut again. The one currently outside was young, barely more than a youth. He’d been nervous when he looked in on her, and quick to snap the window shut again.

Any time now, another templar would come and take his place.

Until then, she waited in silence, and listened.

Her ears strained to discern what distant noises she could hear — the shuffle of boots, the clank of locks and doors, the distant howl of the wind outside. It was impossible to gauge the layout of the prison outside the door; she could only prepare for the initial part of her escape plan, which was to make it outside the door without being detected.

After that, she would have to wing it and hope for the best.

It had been hours since they’d poured the water over her, but the chill of the dungeon had kept her damp. It took considerable effort to keep her teeth from chattering. Perhaps they’d meant to let her freeze to death in here, or perhaps they simply didn’t care _how_ she died, only that she did, for whatever crime they believed her guilty of.

Not long after the incident earlier with the soldiers, there had been a commotion outside. But it had long since grown quiet, and she was certain that they would come for her any time now. She knew of human justice when it concerned her people and it was rarely ever kind, let alone just.

She could not wait to recoup her full strength; she needed to escape before the chance to ever do so was taken from her.

Tephra closed her eyes and let out a slow breath.

 _I am not here,_ she thought to herself.

She repeated it, over and over again in her head as she listened to the approaching footsteps of another templar.

There was a brief moment of banter between the guards before the first departed. Some off-color joke about her race. She paid it no heed, and let the words pulse through her mind like an echoing chant. _I am not here._

The prison cell offered no places to hide, only shadows, and the light that shone in through the window each time they checked on her banished them. But it would not matter, if she could stay focused.

It was an old trick, one she learned as a child. As familiar to her as shrugging on an old favorite coat.

Tephra could barely discern the outline of the window in the door in the darkness, but she kept her focus on it nonetheless. Any moment now, and it would jerk open.

She needed to be ready.

"I am not here," she repeated, breathlessly.

She felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, like a sudden fall. And then the magic shimmered close and wrapped tightly around her.

She heard the guard stop at the door and the rough scrape of metal as he slid the window open and peered in. His brow furrowed in confusion, before panic set in. He cursed, before shouting, "The prisoner’s escaped! Get the Seeker!"

Chaos ensued.

She heard the rush of soldiers outside the cell, but the door remained closed. The men argued and shouted outside the door ― more voices than she’d anticipated. Her heartbeat quickened, but she took a steadying breath to calm her nerves.

“You fucking idiot, you let her escape!”

“She was in there, I swear! I just saw her twenty minutes ago when they brought her food!”

A woman’s voice suddenly cut through the arguing voices, “Enough! _Open it!_ ”

The door was thrown open, and the sudden light of torches blinded her.

Tephra rose slowly from the floor, as her heart pounded in her ears. She ignored the swell of panic in her chest as her sight filtered back to her, and watched as a dozen templars filed into the prison cell. One nearly backed into her, before she managed to slip past him without collision. The soldiers continued to fight among themselves to assign blame, but she ignored it as she moved along the periphery of the cell. She kept herself pressed to the wall to avoid them, as she drew closer to the door. Among the soldiers were two armored women, one of which whom berated the soldiers for their incompetence. The other woman glanced about the cell with a careful, sharp gaze, seemingly assessing the room to discern how their prisoner escaped.

Tephra stilled, and focused. She thought only of absence — of voids, and nothingness. _I am not here_.

The woman frowned, and looked away.

Tephra slipped out the door and trotted silently down the corridor. With each step, she quickened her pace as the shouting voices grew dimmer behind her. With each step, she was closer to freedom.

Dizzy with elation, she stepped wrong as she passed through an archway and fell against wall.

 _Shit_.

Had they heard?

She couldn’t bring herself to look back. Panic bloomed in her gut as she pushed off the wall, and her stomach heaved as the floor seemed to tilt and tip beneath her as she bolted on unsteady legs.

The hall was long and wide, and lined with empty cells tucked into dark alcoves — a seemingly endless stretch of immuration.

She ran beneath an opening in the ceiling where sunlight poured in; she’d been running too fast to alter her course to avoid it. She barreled through, only to find herself once more blinded and disoriented.

She didn’t see the low-hanging brazier until she slammed into it, and was sent stumbling and sprawling to the ground.

The side of her head bounced off the stone tiles, and she rolled slowly onto her side as pain flashed across her senses. She did not hear the guards who found her, only felt their hands on her body as she was roughly hauled to her feet. Lights still danced across her vision as she was escorted back into the cell and shoved to her knees before her captors.

The scrape of swords being pulled from their sheathes echoed around her. As her sight came back to her, Tephra saw that she was surrounded by the chantry soldiers, all of whom had their swords trained on her.

The woman who had charged in earlier stood before her, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her hair was short and dark, and a thick scar ran from her jaw to her cheekbone. It did not escape Tephra’s notice that the templars deferred to this woman.

 _She must be a Seeker,_ she surmised.

The other woman stepped out of the shadows, face set hard as stone.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the Seeker demanded in a low, angry tone. She began to pace around Tephra, as she continued, “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead ― except for _you_.”

Tephra’s head throbbed.

_Everyone?_

Thousands had marched on the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The temple itself was an architectural wonder, and the camps had stretched for nearly a mile around the temple grounds. Only the respective representatives of each side had been permitted to gather within and meet with the Divine, alongside the Valo-Kas mercenaries serving as impartial peacekeepers between the mage and Templar factions.

How could they all have been killed? How could one person even do that?

When Tephra did not answer, the woman grabbed her arm and lifted it, and demanded, “Explain _this_.”

The mark crackled with energy, as if in response.

The Seeker shoved Tephra’s arm back down in disgust. The sound of the heavy manacles hitting the floor echoed loudly around them in the cell.

The need for answers pushed her past the stubborn silence she’d been clinging to. “I can’t,” she replied, troubled by the truth of it.

Her honesty only angered her captor. “What do you mean you _can’t_?”

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there,” she replied quickly. The words left her mouth in a desperate rush to disavow the mark. Even now, her hand throbbed with the pulse of magic ― a sensation wholly foreign and _wrong_ to her.

It didn’t belong there, and her body knew it.

All she wanted was to have it gone from her; she’d never asked for this to happen.

The woman rounded on Tephra, slamming both hands down on her shoulders, “You’re lying!”

The hooded woman was between them in the span of a breath, pushing the Seeker back as she reminded her, “We _need_ her, Cassandra.”

Cassandra gave a sound of disgust and began to stalk a slow circle around Tephra, restless and angry.

The hooded woman turned and spoke to her now, as she queried, “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

She loomed over Tephra, no less a threat than the other woman, even if she spoke in an almost gentle tone.

No, not gentle ― _calm_. Controlled. A concealed threat, like an unseen dagger.

Tephra struggled to comply, “I, uh, remember―”

She grappled with her memories, but was met again by the hole in her mind. There was only darkness there. Acres of it, swallowing her up, _chasing_ her, and―

“Running,” she said, with sudden certainty. She remembered running for her life from the things in the dark. “Things were chasing me, and then―”

Cassandra continued to stalk circles around her as Tephra struggled to recall what little she could.

“A woman.”

Clothed in light, and reaching out to her; the memory came sudden, and unbidden.

The hooded woman echoed her, “A woman?” She was clearly intrigued.

“She reached out to me, but then...”

Tephra fell silent. There was nothing else she could give them. After that, she only remembered waking in the prison.

Cassandra cut through the silence, and said, “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

The hooded woman gave a terse nod. She shot Tephra troubled frown, before leaving.

Cassandra knelt in front of her and took hold of the heavy manacles that bound Tephra’s wrists. As her captor worked the locks, Tephra asked, “What really happened there? No one has explained anything to me.”

The manacles fell free, but the freedom did not last. Cassandra pulled Tephra to her feet, and then began to bind her wrists with rope. With a sharp tug, the Seeker bound her wrists tightly. “It will be easier to show you,” she replied.

Tephra had no choice but to follow the Seeker out of the cell.

She struggled to keep on her feet as the templars hurried her along on wobbly legs. The head wound and an empty stomach left her lightheaded and unsteady on her feet. They led her up into the chantry proper; most of the clerics scattered and retreated behind pillars and templars for safety as they gawked at her.

She did not have time to study her surroundings, as the massive doors to the great hall were thrown open ahead of her. The sunlight was too much. Tephra brought her hands up to block it, blinking furiously until her eyes began to adjust.

And then she felt it.

Something _pulled_ at her. A strange sensation, unseen and unbidden, seemingly tugged her forward, pulled her gaze up and toward the sky, to―

Shock washed over Tephra at the sight of it.

There was a hole in the world where the sky once was. Massive clouds churned in a slow orbit around it, and bright verdant fire and massive rocks hurtled down out of it. A funnel of terrible energy flowed from the heart of it and to the ground below, somewhere beyond the mountains.

A sick feeling twisted like a dagger in her belly as Tephra realized that the magic that poured from the sky looked just like the magic which burned in her hand.

“We call it the Breach. It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour,” the Seeker informed.

The longer that she looked at it, the greater the sense of falling Tephra felt. A hurtling, hollowing, terrible sensation that moved through her and pulsed in time with the beat her heart.

“It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave,” Cassandra explained. The anger had left her, and what remained was calm determination.

Tephra frowned at the woman, “An explosion can do that?”

“This one did,” Cassandra replied. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

_We?_

What did the woman expect her to do?

As if in answer, the hole in the sky flared. Electrical energy discharged from the Breach, cracking like lightning across the sky. Pain jolted up Tephra’s arm ― the aches from before had been nothing like _this_. The pain shocked up her arm and radiated through every part of her. It felt like the marrow in her bones had been set on fire. She cried out as she sank to her knees, with her palm lifted to the sky.

She could feel the _pull_ of it, of whatever magic linked the mark on her hand and the Breach in the sky ― the pull of it kept her marked hand turned up and reaching toward the void that called to it. It took all of her strength to pull it away.

Cassandra dropped to her knee, and gestured emphatically at the hole in the sky as she said, “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads ― and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.

Tephra gaped at the woman, incredulous. “The key? To doing what exactly?”

“Closing the Breach,” she replied, as if the answer had been completely obvious. “Whether that’s possible is something we’ll discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And _yours_.”

Tephra bristled at the implication, “You still think I did this? To myself?”

Cassandra remained unswayed. “Not intentionally. Something clearly went wrong.”

“And if I’m not responsible?”

“Someone is,” the Seeker replied, with certainty. “And you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

Her wrists burned where the ropes held tight against skin long-since chafed raw. The sensible, intelligent part of her brain urged her to say what the Seeker wanted to hear, to be obedient and compliant until she had an opening to escape, but her anger swelled over her. “So I don’t really have a choice about this, do I?” She lifted her bound hands to emphasize her statement.

Cassandra gave her a hard, complicated look before she stated, “None of us has a choice.”

The Seeker hauled her up by the hood of her of her coat. Tephra had no option but to let the woman lead her through the small township. Every face turned to her as she passed, and each met her with anger and fear. Some spat at her feet, and others cursed openly. The wounded ones simply stared with hollow expressions, looking beyond her to something only they could see.

“They have decided your guilt,” Cassandra informed, her statement punctuated by the shouted curses from the townsfolk. “They _need_ it.”

Tephra was led down a dirt path toward a gate, as Cassandra continued, “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

The gate was opened for them, and the Seeker pushed her through it and out onto a stone bridge. It was cluttered with the wounded and the dying. A cleric recited religious verses to a group of templars waiting to depart on a mission, and the guards stationed at the gate eyed her with suspicion.

“We lash out like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did, until the Breach is sealed.”

Tephra felt a twist of anxiety in her gut when the woman pulled a dagger from her belt.

“There will be a trial,” Cassandra informed her, before grabbing Tephra’s wrist and cutting the ropes that bound her. “I can promise no more. Come. It is not far.”

She rubbed at the raw marks on her wrist, as she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach,” Cassandra replied.

And if that worked?

Her gaze turned back to the hole in the sky as she followed the Seeker.

Did they truly expect she could close it? What happened if she couldn’t? Execution seemed likely, despite talk of a trial. All it would take was one templar who’d lost enough in this chaos to snap and slip a dagger in her gut.

Fleeing would be practical, and no one could truly fault her motivations for self-preservation.

Tephra said nothing more as she followed the woman across the bridge. She ignored the angry stares from the templars as she passed them.

“Open the gate!”

She was surprised to find that only the Seeker was escorting her to this “rift”, unaccompanied by templars. It would make escaping far easier than she thought. She simply needed to wait for the right moment to summon the glamour and slip away unseen.

Yet as she followed Cassandra further from the township, past barricades and burning carriages and bodies left to rot in the snow, a dread began to fill her.

It was one thing to be told of the catastrophe ― it was another thing entirely to confront it. This wasn’t some nightmare slithering in from her unconscious mind, something that could be undone by simply waking.

A handful of templars came fleeing past them, and one of them cried out in despair, “Maker! It’s the end of the world!”

Again, her eyes were drawn up to the hole in the sky ― to the void that threatened to swallow the world.

 _That is death itself staring down at us_.

She couldn’t suppress the shudder that ran through her.

As she crested the hill leading towards another bridge, the Breach flared again. The mark sparked and jolted and brought Tephra stumbling to her knees. As she gasped and struggled to catch her breath around the pain of it, Cassandra helped her back to her feet. It was almost gentle, the way the Seeker handled her.

“The pulses are coming faster now,” Cassandra observed. “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons appear.”

“Then we should be moving faster, too,” Tephra replied. She wasn’t sure what spurred her compliance, other than to make this easier on herself.

The Seeker gave a terse nod, and continued on toward the bridge.

She hadn’t thought to ask before, but her curiosity overwhelmed her. She called Cassandra, struggling to keep up with her quickened pace, “How did I survive the explosion?”

As they crossed through another gate tower and onto the bridge, Cassandra slowed her pace and said, “They said you... stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you’ll see, soon enough.”

Tephra lapsed into silence, thinking of the woman in her dreams. Burning bright like a beacon in the darkness, reaching out for her.

Had it been a spirit?

She did not get to contemplate the matter for long.

A massive burning rock hurtled down out of the sky from the Breach, and struck the center of the bridge. The stonework gave way beneath her feet and there was a staggered moment of weightlessness before Tephra hurtled to the frozen river below. She tumbled over herself several times, as her body slammed repeatedly against the rubble on her way down. She rolled to a stop and lay there a moment, dazed, with her cheek pressed against the ice.

Another fireball shot out of the sky and slammed into the ground not far from her. Tephra scrambled back from it a fissure opened, and something began to claw its way up out of it.

Cassandra moved ahead of her, drawing her sword and shield. She shouted over her shoulder, “Stay behind me!”

And then, without a moment of hesitation, the Seeker charged forward to face the demon.

Tephra’s heart pounded like a war drum in her ears, as she backed away. She had never seen a demon before, let alone _fought_ one. It moved with an unnatural speed, clawing at the Seeker who did her best to barrel it back. It did not escape her attention that the woman was doing her best to keep it from charging past to reach her.

Another fissure rippled and opened in the ground, from which another demon scrabbled up through behind Cassandra.

 _This is your chance_.

She turned, ready to bolt, ready to flee this nightmare ― but was met by the sight of a recurve bow laying among the broken crates and supplies that littered the rubble. Not far from it, was a nearly-full quiver.

 _Run_.

The word screamed through her mind, but all she could think of was the people who’d died because of what happened at the Conclave. _Something_ had happened. _Something_ had marked her. And there was a terrible possibility that she had something to do with it, however small or unwilling her involvement.

How could she leave before finding out what really happened there?

Tephra cursed under her breath and scooped up the quiver and threw it over her shoulder, before grabbing the bow. She quickly nocked an arrow and drew it taut; she let out a slow breath as she brought the bow up to aim. The second demon reared up to swipe its terrible claws at the Seeker’s back.

She loosed the arrow and it struck the demon square between the eyes.

Black ichor spurted from the wound as it howled and raged towards her. The second arrow caught it in the neck, and she trotted out of its reach and continued to fire on it. The other demon fell under the brutal swings of the Seeker’s sword, and she rounded on the second. Tephra shot an arrow into its other eye just as Cassandra’s sword exploded through the demon’s chest. The demon slumped to the ground, and did not move again.

The Seeker advanced on her, sword drawn. She held it just above Tephra’s face, as she demanded, “Drop your weapon. _Now_.”

Tephra shot back, “What was I supposed to do? Let it kill me?”

“You don’t need to fight,” the Seeker insisted, stubbornly.

Tephra gave an incredulous laugh, and said, “And what happens if I die before we get to this rift?”

Cassandra’s frown faltered, before she relented and sheathed her sword. Sighing, she said, “You’re right. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.”

The Seeker’s eyes narrowed and caught sight of the slight tremble in Tephra’s hands. “Have you never faced a demon before?”

She tightened her grip on the bow to stop the tremble in her hands, “No.”

The worse she ever faced in the Free Marches were bears. She never stalked anything that wasn’t game animals, and never put herself in the situation to face anything worse than bears. Dealing with bandits could be tiresome, at times, but bears were always worse.

“It does not get easier,” Cassandra said, truthfully. “And there will be more.”

The Seeker turned to continue onward, but stopped a few steps ahead. She turned back, and looked at Tephra with what looked like tentative approval. “I should remember, you did not attempt to run.”

She almost had, but perhaps her faltering had escaped the Seeker’s notice in the midst of fighting. Tephra, however, was not going to correct her on it. She simply followed after the woman, keeping her silence as they continued along the frozen river, which snaked between the hillsides.

Tephra did not recognize this area; she had made a point of avoiding this small township, as she had all the other towns and cities of Ferelden. Her mission had been clear and she didn’t have the time to consider being distracted by the locals in every other town, friendly or not.

They came to a rocky hill where a stone stairway had been built up along its curve. A stone bridge connected the hill to another across the frozen river, but it had been blown apart by falling debris just as the other before. Cassandra trotted toward the stairs, and began ascending them at a hurried pace.

"We’re getting close to the rift!" The Seeker did not break her pace as she shouted back to Tephra, "You can hear the fighting!"

Tephra strained her ears; there were shouts coming from somewhere up on the hill, and the cracking sounds of magic. She called after Cassandra, audibly winded and confused, " _Whose_ fighting?"

"You’ll see soon," Cassandra shouted back. "We must help them!"

As they crested the hill, the sounds of fighting grew more intense. Directly ahead of them, she could see it.

 _The rift_.

It hovered like a hole cut through the fabric of reality, suspended in the air, as it grew and collapsed upon itself in a dance of shifting geometric shapes. It had that same eerie green glow as her mark. Below it, soldiers were fighting demons that had emerged from it.

Before she could utter a word, Cassandra charged ahead. Jolted out of her shocked stupor, Tephra followed after.

They were fighting down below among the ruins of some ancient structure. Tephra felt her stomach leap into her throat as she jumped down from the ledge and into the snowy bank below. Thankfully, her legs did not give out on her as she landed. Exhaustion had set in long ago, and she wasn’t sure what kept her going beyond pure survival instincts.

Cassandra charged headfirst into the melee.

She had to admit, the Seeker was _fearless_.

Tephra, however, was no soldier. She was a hunter, and a scout, and an occasional defender of her clan, but those skirmishes had been few and far between. She skirted the battle and hopped up along the stone bricks of a half-fallen wall, until she was safe up on a ledge overlooking the battle. It had been part of some old structure that had fallen long ago. She dropped to one knee, and the bow came alive in her hands. She loosed arrow after arrow, with a speed and efficiency that belied the strain of her exhausted body.

Two templars fought alongside two civilians, against half a dozen demons. An elven mage, and a dwarf sporting a wicked-looking crossbow who was too preoccupied with one demon to see the other advancing in his blind spot.

Tephra took aim and loosed.

The arrow pierced through the demon’s right eye; it reared back and howled in pain.

As he made a hasty retreat to safety, the dwarf whooped, "That had to hurt!"

Fire burst from the mage’s staff in a volley of searing magic, pummeling back another demon and turning it to nothing more than quivering, charred flesh. Cassandra made quick work of the half-blind demon, which was the last of the them to fall.

When the fighting ceased, Tephra jumped down from the ledge. She was once again thankful that her knees did not give out on her. Her heart raced in her chest as she stepped closer to the rift, mesmerized by the bright green magic burning a hole through the air. Burning a hole through the world, and into the Fade itself.

The mage grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her toward it, as he urged, "Quickly! Before more come through!"

With that, he thrust her hand toward the rift and held it there.

Though she touched nothing physical, it felt as if she had. The rift’s magic sent a piercing jolt through her arm, and she felt the tremendous power of it pulse against her palm — and then she felt the mark respond in kind. Pain swelled in a crescendo across her nerves, eliciting a gasp from her that she could not suppress. There was another force, more subtle than the rift, that poured into her from the mage. Of that, she was certain, as it masked the pain that came from the mark in her hand.

The pulsing swelled as the magic from the rift pressed against her — or did it come from the mage? — and _t_ _hrough_ her. It filled her to bursting, crowding out her breath, until she was sure that she would faint, building and building — until a burst of energy sent her stumbling backward.

The rift imploded on itself in a blinding flash of light, and dissipated.

Clutching her hand, she gaped at the mage, “What did you do?”

Amused, the elf replied, “I did nothing. The credit is yours.”

She frowned, and looked at her hand. The mark was calm once again, just a seam of shimmering green running across her skin. The persistent ache that had plagued her since waking in the prison was curiously gone, as well. She raised her palm and gestured it to him, “You mean this?”

“Whatever magic opened the breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand,” he replied. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake — and it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” the Seeker surmised, with cautious optimism.

“Possibly,” the mage replied, carefully. He was seemingly unwilling to deal in certainty on that matter, lest he be wrong. Though he seemed elated to have been correct about the rifts, and was giddy with relief. He turned his attention back to her, and gave her a warm smile, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

The dwarf piped up behind them, “Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

Tephra turned as the dwarf sauntered toward her, and introduced himself, “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

He winked at the Seeker, who in turn gave him a frustrated grimace in response.

Tephra couldn’t discern why he, or the mage, would be working with the templars, not unless—

“Are you with the chantry?”

The mage laughed behind her, and quipped, “Was that a serious question?”

Tephra flushed. It was a good-natured laugh, not at all mocking, but she felt stupid for having asked.

The dwarf gave her an amused smile, before dropping his gaze almost sheepishly and idly readjusting his gloves, “Technically I’m a prisoner, just like you.”

His candor caused her wariness to waver, if only briefly.

“At this rate, we prisoners will soon outnumber the templars,” she observed, dryly.

Varric laughed again, and the mage smiled.

“Enough of that, before I put you _all_ in irons,” Cassandra barked, her voice a cracking whip of authority. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events,” Varric retorted.

There was a tension there that spoke of a much older relationship than just captor and prisoner. The two of them obviously had history of some sort.

“That’s a nice crossbow you have there,” she remarked, as she eyed the weapon appreciatively. And it really was; she’d never seen anything like it before.

“Ahh — isn’t she?” The dwarf gave a exhalation of pride, and said, “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.” He spoke more to his crossbow than to her, as he gazed over his shoulder at the weapon.

A smile crept across Tephra’s mouth, however small, as she asked, “You named your crossbow Bianca?”

“Of course.”

It took all of that moment to decide that she liked this dwarf. “It’s good to meet you, Varric,” she said, and meant it.

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the mage remarked from behind her, with dry amusement.

“Aww,” Varric feigned a wounded look. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra interjected, clearly not amused with their banter. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but—”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me,” he said, punctuating the last bit with a cocksure smile.

He was right — four was better odds against demons that just two — however loathe Cassandra was to admit it. She gave a sound of disgust and frustration before she turned on her heel and relented.

Tephra almost felt sorry for her. She’d never been comfortable leading a scout team, let alone a hunting party. A battalion of soldiers? She couldn’t imagine that kind of pressure.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the mage spoke up at her side, smiling at her with an amiable ease that continued to unsettle her.

Why was he smiling at her so much? He certainly didn’t smile so much — if at all — at the other two. Had he neglected to notice the hole in the sky, and the general end-of-the-world madness around them?

Sensing her unease, he quickly added, “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means: I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,” Varric piped up, in a wry tone.

Tephra looked between them, warily. She could vaguely remember a voice in the dark, but that had been a dream. Hadn’t it? Who was this mage, that knew so much about the mark on her hand, and the Breach? She could not keep the suspicion from her face as she remarked, “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

“Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such matters,” Cassandra said, matter-of-fact.

“Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” Solas replied, a bit dryly. He turned his attention back to her, “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

“How heroic of you,” she replied, flatly. She was unable to shake her wariness of him — of any of them, no matter how charming the dwarf was. She could still feel the press of metal against her skin, even with the shackles gone. No matter their friendliness, she could not forget that she was not free among them.

“Merely sensible, although sense appears to be in short supply right now,” Solas replied.

He glanced at her wrists, where she’d been unconsciously rubbing at the marks. She stopped when she caught him looking, and let her hands fall back at her sides.

For a moment, his expression grew dark, as he added, “People tend to lose much of their sensibilities in the face of things they do not understand.”

Tephra frowned. Was he apologizing for the guards?

“You never explained how you managed to escape your prison cell,” Cassandra remarked, with sudden suspicion. It was practical, given her position, but there was a speck of doubt somewhere in there as well. As if the Seeker wanted to trust her word.

“They let me out,” Tephra replied, simply.

It was, technically, the truth.

“It isn’t my fault they didn’t see me.”

The dwarf erupted in laughter, before being quickly silenced by the Seeker’s disapproving frown. He cleared his throat and fell silent, though still clearly amused. Cassandra turned her harsh gaze back to her, “Running would imply you have something to be guilty for.”

Her anger flashed back like a wildfire.

“I woke in chains. The guards treated me as less than an animal. No one explained what had happened, or why I was being detained. Running was the most honest thing I could do,” she replied, defiantly.

Cassandra stared her down, her gaze raking over Tephra’s face and body language, looking for the lie. She gave a sharp sigh, having found none.

Tephra knew enough of Seekers to know how exquisitely trained they were in detecting falsehoods. She hoped that she wouldn’t be forced to lie to this woman, as she was certain it wouldn’t hold up to such thorough scrutiny.

The Seeker’s hard expression softened, if only by a fraction. “Those were not my men who treated you as such, but they will be held responsible for their actions nonetheless.”

Tephra cared little whether or not they would be. What had happened, happened. All she wanted was to do what was asked of her, so that she would be free to go home to her clan. And if it seemed unlikely that they would release her, she would slip away at the first opportunity that presented itself.

“Cassandra, you should know that the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage,” Solas said, breaking through the awkward silence that had settled between her and the Seeker. “Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power.”

“Understood,” Cassandra conceded. “We’ve wasted enough time here. We must get to the forward camp, quickly.” She turned to the two templars who’d been fighting alongside Solas and Varric. “Report back to Haven until further notice.”

With that, Cassandra moved ahead with a purposeful stride. The mage followed after.

“Well, Bianca’s excited!” Varric jested, as he moved past her to follow the others.

Tephra idled a moment, watching them descend down along the pathway. It would easy to slip away now, but she did not know this land and these so-called rifts were expelling demons beyond counting. She couldn’t imagine being able to bring one down by herself, let alone more. It was less of a risk to follow them, at least for the time being.

Reluctantly, she followed after.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


The path snaked alongside the frozen river, leading further into the hills as it cut through the valley.

Fortunately, the journey was quiet, but for the occasional chunks of burning Fade which came hurtling out of the Breach.

They descended down a snowy bank towards a frozen lake. There were several hunting cabins scattered along the shore, many of which had been collapsed by falling debris. Only one still stood, though it was actively burning down.

Tephra started towards the building, but Cassandra caught her by the arm.

“They’ve already been evacuated,” she informed. “We must move on.”

A knot settled in the pit of Tephra’s stomach, as she trekked past. They were homes that belonged to someone, somewhere, and soon they would be no more than ash in the snow. She thought briefly of a time before, when she had known the same loss.

The mage was staring at her again, with that same unwavering curiosity. Tephra quickened her pace, to avoid his piercing gaze.

Solas cleared his throat, as he called after her, “You are Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?”

She shot him a curious glance, eyeing his unmarked face, “What do you know of the Dalish?”

The mage kept his tone amiably neutral, quickening his pace to match hers as he replied, “I have wandered many roads in my time and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

_Crossed paths._

It was a deliberate choice of words, and there was a trap laid there. Of that much, she was certain.

Had he meant to provoke her? Or was he simply trying to draw her out into conversation? Whatever his intent, she remained silent as she trudged through the snow, following after the Seeker.

He shot her a curious glance when she didn’t take the bait.

“It is silence, then? As you wish,” he conceded, lapsing into silence as he slowed his pace.

“ _Elves_ ,” the dwarf grumbled, largely to himself.

They crossed a frozen lake toward another stone stairway that cut a path up the hillside.

“So,” the dwarf piped up, as they began to climb the stairwell. “ _Are_ you innocent?”

“I don’t remember what happened,” Tephra replied, ignoring the burning strain in her thighs from climbing the stairs.

She did not care to appear weak to them, even if it were justified by imprisonment and prolonged unconsciousness.

“That’ll get you every time,” the dwarf sighed. “Should have spun a story.”

“That’s what _you_ would have done,” Cassandra snapped in annoyance, ahead of them all.

The dwarf laughed, “It’s more believable and less prone to result in premature execution.”

Beyond the stairs, the hill continued upward sharply. The path winded up toward another gated bridge, but even from this distance she could see it. Another rift.

At the sight of it, the mark on her hand flared. Tephra hissed in pain, and clenched her hand into a fist.

"That didn’t sound good,” the dwarf said, gently.

“Hold on, we haven’t much further to go,” Cassandra urged. Rushing forward up the hill, she shouted, “Hurry! There’s another rift!”

She had no choice but to follow. The muscles in her thighs continued to strain, but it wasn’t much farther. They passed by burning carriages and corpses, before cresting the hill.

Ahead of them, several templars clashed with demons beneath the rift. The ground was littered with the bodies of demons and templars alike.

One of the soldiers cried out, “Help us! They keep coming!”

Varric sprinted ahead, before falling into a defensive crouch and sending a barrage of crossbow bolts into the nearest demon. It screamed in fury, but Cassandra was on it before it could turn its wrath on the dwarf.

Another scrambled toward her, its long spindly arms outstretched and massive clawed hands reaching for her. A sudden gust of heat rushed past her, and a massive burst of fire blasted the creature backwards. Before she could react, Solas shoved her forward towards the rift and shouted urgently, “You must seal it — quickly! Use the mark!”

“I—”

She turned back towards Solas, full of uncertainty, but the mage was occupied with casting barrier magics around the battered soldiers and blasting back the advancing demons to keep them from reaching her.

She was on her own this time.

Tephra turned back to the rift, unsure of what to do. She could feel the magic rolling off of it in waves; she felt the power of the mark undulating beneath her skin in rhythym with it. Solas had thrown her hand into the one before, like shoving a key into a lock.

Was is it really as simple as that?

She took a steadying breath, her whole body vibrating with sick nervousness.

 _Creators, let this work,_ she thought to herself, before thrusting her hand up towards the rift.

Once again, the mark seared open and magic poured from her palm in a stream of crackling emerald energy. It shot straight into the rift and she felt the clash of magic jolt through her. It felt as if every cell in her body was electrified and vibrating and _singing_ — and yet also the overwhelming sensation of being torn open.

Her face contorted at the pain, but she gritted her teeth and held her ground; the rift pushed back again against the magic that poured out of her, resisting briefly, before it collapsed.

She stumbled forward a step, as if she’d been leaning on an invisible wall that had suddenly dissipated. The magic receded from her, and she let go of a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding.

Cassandra shouted at the templars, “The rift is gone! Open the gate!”

“Right away, lady Cassandra!”

The mage leaned on his staff, somewhat winded, as he said to her, “We are clear for the moment. Well done.”

Tephra made a fist with the marked hand, as the ache returned. The green light shined through the cracks between her fingers.

The dwarf eyed her hand, and remarked, “Whatever that thing on your hand is, it’s useful.”

She said nothing, and focused on keeping her breath steady as she followed them through the gate. To her surprise, the templars neither frowned at her, nor spit at her; they simply stared at her as if she was something they hadn’t expected.

The bridge was cluttered with crates and supply wagons and more of the dead. Toward the far end, a tent and table had been set up at the gate as a makeshift camp to treat the wounded and organize the soldiers. There at the table, the hooded woman from before was arguing loudly with a chantry cleric.

“—have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility!” The cleric raged, both hands flat on the table between him and the hooded woman.

“I have caused trouble?” Leliana echoed, indignantly.

“You, Cassandra, the Most Holy! Haven’t you all done enough already?”

“You are not in command here,” she all but spat.

The male cleric flushed, and shouted, “Enough! I will not have it!” He stilled suddenly at the sight of their approach, and straightened. “Ah. Here they come.”

Leliana turned on her heel, and gave Cassandra a look of relief, “You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is—”

“I know who she is,” he remarked, his tone suddenly calm with certainty. “As Grand Chancellor of the Haven Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

“Order _me?_ ” The Seeker gave an incredulous laugh, “You’re a glorified clerk — a bureaucrat!”

Chancellor Roderick scoffed, “And you are a thug — a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the most holy, Chancellor, as you well know,” Leliana corrected.

The Chancellor threw up his hands in frustration, “Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!” The chancellor looked suddenly past Tephra, and gestured, “You, there. Seize her!”

Tephra didn’t have time to react. A soldier grabbed hold of her elbows and wrenched her arms back. She heard a sudden low laugh, and felt her stomach clench with rage.

It was Karsten.

Cassandra was livid. “Release her, now!”

“He’ll do no such thing,” the Chancellor said. “That creature is responsible for all of this!”

Karsten’s armored gloves dug into her flesh, as he said, “I don’t think it wise to release her, Seeker. She has been a spiteful wretch, no matter how gently and kindly we treated her. How can we be sure she’s not some demon?”

His grip had loosened briefly as he spoke. It gave Tephra enough leverage to spin on the ball of her foot and smash her forehead into the templar’s unguarded face. Blood gushed from his broken nose and sprayed her face, as he sank to his knees in a flurry of incoherent curses.

She spat at him, “That’s what your _kindness_ has bought.”

She spat again as she was yanked away from him by other chantry men, before before grinning at the gaping onlookers. She imagined she made for a frightening sight, what with a bloodied face and manic grin.

“Maker, take her,” Karsten cursed, rising on wobbly legs. “She’s worse than a feral dog!”

Cassandra shoved the wounded soldier, “Leave now! You’re dismissed!”

The soldier spat at the ground. “I don’t take orders from you!”

The Seeker rounded on the Chancellor, with a threatening hand on her sword hilt. He held his silence stubbornly for a moment, before relenting. He sent the soldier off with a nod.

Tephra yanked herself free of the templar who’d taken hold of her, and he gave no resistance. Varric was laughing and Solas had a small, enigmatic smile on his face.

Cassandra rounded on her, angrily, “Are you quite done?!”

Tephra remained furiously silent, ignoring the splitting ache that pulsed in her forehead.

“Call a retreat, Seeker,” Roderick advised. “Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cassandra insisted, having regained her composure.

“You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers,” the Chancellor said, dismissively.

“It’s the quickest route to the temple!”

“But not the safest,” Leliana interjected. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path — it is too risky,” Cassandra protested.

“Listen to me,” the Chancellor pleaded. “Abandon this now before more lives are lost!”

Above them, the Breach flared ominously.

Pain shot through Tephra’s arm; she cried out and grasped her wrist. It tore through her flesh and bones, burrowing deeper and deeper into her. Her knees gave out as she hunched over herself, until her forehead was pressed into the cold stone of the bridge beneath her. She cradled her convulsing arm to her chest, trying to calm her labored breaths. The pain drove out everything, including the voices of the others — everything but the rushing din of her own heart beating furiously in her ears as pain washed over her in waves.

She felt someone lay their hand on her back and then, as quickly as the pain had come, it was gone.

The sudden absence of pain left her gasping and shivering and struggling to center herself. After a moment to collect herself, she pushed up from the ground and found that it was Solas who’d crouched at her side and applied whatever healing magic he had used on her. It had been like nothing she’d ever experienced before — the way he was able to simply shut the pain away as if it were nothing at all.

As she rose to her feet, the mage offered her a scrap of cloth to clean her face with, but rage still coiled in the pit of her and she rebuffed him. She wiped the blood from her face with the arm of her coat.

If he was offended, he did not show it, and simply stepped back beside the dwarf.

Cassandra moved to stand before Tephra, and there was something different in the way she held herself. “How do you think we should proceed?”

Tephra could not keep the incredulous laugh from her voice as she asked, “Now you’re asking what I think?”

“You have the mark,” the mage said, from behind her.

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” the Seeker agreed. “Since we cannot agree on our own, we will leave the choice up to you.”

Tephra could have laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Had they gone mad? She could not keep the anger from her voice, as she raged, “What choice? I have no choice here. It’s either do nothing and die, or do, and still probably die. If I somehow live closing that thing in the sky, then what — back into that cage? How _kind_ of you.”

“There will be no need for that, with your cooperation,” the Seeker replied, tersely.

Tephra did not like the idea of charging into a battlefield against an untold number of demons. The few they’d already faced had been difficult as it was, and she did not have strength to dodge her way through an a whole host of them.

“Take the mountain path, then,” she said.

Cassandra looked less than thrilled, but held her tongue. She turned to the hooded woman, “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. _Everyone_.”

Leliana gave a terse nod, and departed without a further word.

As Cassandra passed by the Chancellor, he sniped after her, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

If the cleric’s words bothered Cassandra at all, she did not show it.

The mage and dwarf followed after, with Tephra bringing up the rear. As they passed through gate, the mage glanced at her.

“You still have not given your name,” he observed.

The others also looked to her briefly, as if they expected her answer.

“Does it matter? Am I anything more than this—” Tephra raised her shimmering, sparking hand, “—to any of you?”

No one spoke up as they trudged on toward the mountain.

“Call me what you will,” she said. “It’s nothing to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how to reconcile clearly magical abilities of the rogue class, specifically the stealth ability, so I've expanded it a bit into a latent magical ability.


	3. Breach

He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw  
for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world.  
The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth.  
Darkness implacable.  
Borrowed time and borrowed world  
and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.  
 _―Cormac McCarthy, The Road_

  
  
  
He wasn’t sure what to make of her, this Dalish woman who’d accroached his power from the Elder One.

She hardly spoke at all as they traveled through the frozen landscape along a treacherous mountain path. Solas followed behind the group at a staggered pace, to better observe them, though his eyes were more often than not drawn to her over the others.

She was a wary creature, but understandably so given the treatment she’d been subjected to. She dropped her guard at times — ever so slightly — for the dwarf, but otherwise remained withdrawn as they traveled onward.

Twice now, she had closed rifts that had been torn through the Veil and each act of using the Anchor taxed her body more than the previous. Even if she had been at the peak of her health, closing the rifts would have been daunting and exhausting for her. That she was already weakened from days of unconsciousness and lack of proper sustenance, was more than unfortunate. She hid her exhaustion well and made no complaints as she trudged along, but it was clear to him that she was on her last legs. If he concentrated, he could sense the erratic pace of her heart through the Anchor, beating out a frantic epilogue.

She was dying with every step she took.

He was not certain that she would be able close the Breach, let alone survive the attempt, but there were no other options left to him but to let this play out, whatever the outcome. Time was quickly running out. The hole in the sky widened with each passing moment.

The closer that they traveled towards the Breach, the heavier its pull became. He could feel the gravity of its magic tugging at him, and he was certain that she could as well through the Anchor. Every so often, she would clench her fist, opening and closing it against the sensation of the magic pulling at and through her.

He had done what he could to calm the Anchor, but if it continued to pain her, she did not let on about it. Aside from the occasional frown, her face was a cool mask of indifference.

 _Tranquil_. Just as all the rest.

A shadow cast by the last light of a dying world.

Yet, as they trekked further up into the mountains, the mask she wore slipped and something came alive in the Dalish woman.

Her eyes were drawn continually to the landscape as they ascended higher above the world below, and she stopped often along the way to drink in the sight of it all with wide eyes and breathlessness. Brief moments where her face was as open as the landscape around them. Her vested interest stirred questions in him, and he idly considered asking her if she’d traveled through many mountains before, or if she simply thought it a beautiful sight. But for all the meager questions asked of her, she gave little of herself and otherwise kept to her silences stubbornly.

And it mattered little, in the long run.

If she survived closing the Breach, she would inevitably die later from the effects of carrying the Anchor. If she somehow survived until he could reclaim it safely, she would likely die when the Veil was brought down, as many were likely to. His only concern should have been for her survival to that point, insofar for her usefulness, not how many mountains she’d traveled through or how lovely she found them to be. The Elder One had complicated the route he needed to take to achieve his goal in restoring this world to what it once was before; there was no need to add further complication by mistaking her passing interest as little more than reaction to stimuli.

They were not People, after all. Only mayflies drawn to what little light was left in this world. But if she died before the Breach could be sealed, it would swallow the world. And then there would be nothing left for his People, or for anyone — immortal and mortal alike.

And _that_ was unacceptable.

He needed to stay focused on what was at stake.

The path cut off suddenly where the mountain became impassable; a network of platforms and ladders had been constructed along a foundation of layered stonework. The wooden framework was solid, if old, but no less treacherous as it was sheeted with ice.

The wind whipped fiercely against them; one strong gust, and they all could have been swept unceremoniously to their deaths. It was not a comforting thought.

 _What a terribly mundane end to the Dread Wolf that would be_ , he thought to himself, with dark amusement.

“The tunnel should be just ahead, above these platforms,” Cassandra noted. “The path to the temple lies just beyond it.”

“These ladders don’t look very stable to me,” Varric grumbled, eyeing the framework with unease.

Solas hooked his staff to his traveling pack, before ascending the ladder to the platform above. He climbed swiftly, his long legs skipping several rungs at a time. At the top, he turned and shot a smile down at the dwarf, “It seems quite steady to me, Master Tethras.”

“Show off!” the dwarf shot back, with a laugh.

Cassandra was second up the ladder, though slower and more careful in her climbing. The Dalish woman came third, and slower still. Her arms shook with each upward pull of her body.

Solas crouched and reached down as she neared the top of the ladder, to offer assistance. She stopped on the ladder at the sight of him reaching for her, and rewarded him with a sharp frown as she remained there on the ladder and once again rebuffed his assistance. Not that he could very well blame her. She was still clearly rattled by her experience in the chantry prison, but her continued refusal to be aided in any manner, no matter how inconsequential, was becoming tedious.

Or perhaps it was just Dalish stubbornness bleeding through.

"Ma nuvenin," he said, tersely. He stood and moved away from the ladder.

As she struggled up the last few rungs, Cassandra gave an impatient huff and bent down to grab the woman by the collar of her coat. The Seeker hauled her bodily up onto the platform, and pulled the elf to her feet.

Scowling, she pulled herself out of Cassandra’s grip.

“If you fall, we _all_ die,” the Seeker stated, not unkindly.

“I don’t plan on dying today,” the elf shot back, though she wavered where she stood.

Cassandra produced a vial of elfroot serum, “You need to take this.”

The elf’s jaw tightened, working soundlessly as she tried and failed to produce a counter argument. Without a word, she relented and took the vial. She downed it without further protest.

“Take a breath. Then we move on,” the Seeker said.

The platform they idled on was fairly small as it was with the three of them, but when the dwarf came huffing up the ladder, it forced the Seeker to continue up the next ladder.

Varric clambered up next to the elf, and bent to lean on his knees as he quipped, “Come on, Snowflake. If I can get up these ladders, so can you.”

“I’m not sure which of us is struggling more,” she replied, before giving the dwarf a curious look. “Snowflake?”

“All that white hair and lashes,” Varric huffed, as he caught his breath and gestured broadly at her where frost had caught in her hair, as well as her lashes. “You’re practically made out of them,” he added, with a laugh.

Solas had to admit, it was an apt observation. Poetic even, given their surroundings.

In the prison beneath the Haven chantry, he had not gotten a proper look at her beyond what the candlelight illuminated. And truly, he’d been more focused on the Anchor than the woman herself, but here in the daylight, he could appreciate her striking appearance.

She was descended from the elves of the Tirashan — however distantly — of that much, he was certain. White hair was not exclusive to their tribes, by any means; it was her eyes which gave her away. Impossibly dark and deeply set, and framed with thick white lashes and brows. A perpetual flush bordered her eyes and edged the wide lines of her cheekbones. It gave her a distinct, fevered look about her.

The dwarf gave a laugh, “It’s either that, or “Sticks”, for those skinny little things you elves call legs.”

The woman flushed, but there was something close to amusement in the way she looked at the dwarf. Yet when she took notice of Solas’s scrutiny, she frowned. The expression pulled at her vallaslin, and the dark bruise blooming there where she’d slammed her forehead into the templar’s face previously.

“Your vallaslin,” Solas mused, to divert her suspicion. “I would have assumed a hunter such as yourself would have chosen to bear Andruil’s mark.” Solas stifled his amusement as the elf stiffened, ever so slightly. Was she really so surprised he could tell that she was a hunter? “You are a hunter, are you not? Why then Ghilan’nain?” he asked.

She gave him a measured look, before replying, “It was my mother’s mark.”

Her flippant response made him frown. Was she jesting?

From his observations, albeit limited in their scope, the Dalish took great pride and care in choosing which mark they chose to bear for life. It wasn’t just an act of piety — however misguided — but also a reflection of the self, made after a period of time spent meditating on one’s own path in life. It was a statement to the world: _I am Dalish_. Yet to have simply chosen it because her mother had borne it before her seemed banal, at best.

“Surely there is more to it than that,” he mused, keeping his tone even and mild, as he didn’t wish to provoke her further.

The Dalish were always so quick to anger when pushed on the subject of their beliefs.

“Must there?” She quirked an eyebrow, regarding him with those startlingly dark eyes. Even in the full sun, he could just barely discern the pupils from the irises. It made her expressions harder to read, and at times completely unfathomable. “It was be marked, or be cast out,” she said, finally.

“And so you were,” he observed.

There was more there that she was omitting, but this was not the time to ask, and he wasn’t certain she was willing to divulge it anyhow. Perhaps if she survived this endeavor, he would hear tell of it.

“We should keep moving,” the Seeker urged, before starting up the next ladder.

“No rest for the weary,” the dwarf sighed, and followed after in resignation.

As they moved onward, the Dalish woman stepped easier. The potion was only a temporary solution and would not last long, but for now it helped her manage the ladders. Solas ascended last, in the off chance that she slipped or lost her footing.

The Seeker was right; if the elf fell, then all was lost.

The final platform swept around an outcropping of the mountain, which then opened up into a massive tunnel. It was an old structure, and their footfalls echoed deeply into it as they entered. There were fresh torches in the sconces on the walls, and clusters of candles left alight along the walkways. They couldn’t have been left burning more than an hour, by his estimate.

Solas looked to the Seeker, and asked, “What manner of tunnel is this, a mine?”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied, “Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths. The Temple of Sacred Ashes was built from stone quarried here.”

“And your missing soldiers are in here somewhere?” Varric’s voice echoed ahead of them, and deep into the mountain.

“Along with whatever has detained them,” Solas surmised, albeit speaking more quietly than the dwarf.

“We shall see soon enough,” the Seeker said, as she wrested a torch free from a sconce on the wall before moving onward. She knew this path well enough that there was little apprehension in her steps.

The elf moved at a slower pace, but it wasn’t exhaustion that slowed her. Her eyes pored over the wooden beams and stonework that held the mountain above them, full of curiosity. As they turned down a hallway and onto a bridge, the mountain opened up around them and fell away.

She immediately wandered to the railing, and leaned over to peer down into the abyss below, mouth parted with breathlessness. She gripped the stone until her knuckles went white, but still her curiosity overtook her fear as she took in the sight of it.

Frustration coiled inside of him. The world was ending, and here she was idling at every turn.

He went to where the elf lingered, meaning to remind her of the task at hand, of the sheer gravity of their situation. Yet, when stopped beside her, he found himself drawn in by the awe on her face.

Solas leaned his hip against the railing, and asked, “Are you frightened of such heights?”

“I would be stupid not to be,” she replied. “But it’s beautiful, nonetheless.”

He followed her gaze to see what she saw, but there was nothing but stone and ice and abject darkness.

It was nothing, and yet, here at the end of the world, with nothing left but borrowed time, this shadow of an elf looked out on what little was left to see on their path to the end and found it beautiful.

It gave him a strange sense of pause.

“Come,” Cassandra called, growing frustrated with the elf’s meandering pace. “We must keep going.”

The Dalish woman let go of the railing, and followed after the Seeker.

Solas followed as well as he pushed aside the surprise he felt at her unpredictable behavior. He let his thoughts turn back to contingency plans.

If the woman indeed failed to seal the Breach, or failed to at least stabilize it, fleeing was the only immediate option available to him.

His agents waited in small camps in the wilderness skirting the destroyed temple, and with several near Haven. If it came to failure, they would need to retreat. He would have to flee to the ends of Thedas, to spend what time he had left searching for another way to fix this. He hoped it would not come to that. If she died before closing the Breach, or was very likely to, he would have to take the Anchor. There was no knowing if he was ready for that — if he was strong enough to reclaim it. It could just as well kill him outright, as it should have killed the magister. And then the world would truly be lost.

That thought settled heavily in him, but—

There was no path but forward.

He repeated it to himself in a steady mantra to keep himself moving ever toward his goal; he could not leave any room for doubt.

The tunnel through the mountain was not a long one, and at the exit they found the missing scouts. Their bodies were strewn across the opening, bloody and torn and had been dead for some time now. Ice was already forming in their still-open eyes.

“Ah,” Varric sighed, his face grim. “Guess we found the soldiers.”

Cassandra gave a tight look of dismay, but it was brief as she hardened herself to the sight of them. She discarded her torch in the snow. “That cannot be all of them,” she said, stepping carefully around the bodies. “Leliana would not send such a small squadron through this pass.”

“So the others could be holed up ahead?” The dwarf looked out down along the path ahead, as if he expected to catch sight of them ahead.

_Another distraction._

A great sense of urgency pressed on him, pushing him to urge them along their path, to keep them on course.

“Our priority must be the Breach,” Solas reminded, as he concealed the desperation growing inside of him. “Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.”

Varric gestured at the elf, “I’m leaving that to our elven friend here.”

She looked between them with a tight expression, and said nothing.

Her frowns were becoming a familiar sight at this point, down to the small vertical crease that formed between her eyebrows.

The dwarf softened, and tapped her arm playfully, “Come on, kid. It’s only the end of the world. No pressure or anything.”

She started after the Seeker, without a word. Her steps were growing heavier now, her pace more staggered. If she hadn’t before, she certainly felt the weight of the Breach now as it was almost directly overhead.

Halfway down the steep path from the mountain, they heard the sounds of a frantic clash between soldiers and demons. When they cleared the hill, they caught sight of a rift above a paved overlook. The stone walls that bordered it were flanked at either end with two massive statues. The soldiers were all but overwhelmed by the shades and demons that had been pulled through the rift.

As before, the Seeker charged headfirst into the conflict without hesitation. She barreled through the demons, using her shield to clear a path to reach her soldiers. Tall as the demons were, they were slight and moved on spindly limbs. It did not take much to throw them off-balance.

The dwarf was at his side, already firing upon the creatures with quick efficiency.

Solas struck the ground with the butt of his staff; barrier magic snapped around the two of them. A quick glance around himself revealed a sudden, startling truth; the Dalish woman was nowhere to be seen.

_Fenedhis!_

At first, he considered the possibility that she would run, but despite her anger she had been compliant with the Seeker. Had she simply been waiting

for a distraction to make her escape? His eyes swept the battlefield, and still he did not catch sight of her.

His stomach lurched with a sudden, sick anxiety, but there was a demon charging at him that demanded his immediate focus; he thrust his staff forward and sent wave after wave of blistering fire at the creature. It shrieked horribly at him, trying to push its way through force of the spells to reach him. It finally succumbed and fell to the ground. Just past its twitching, dying body, he caught sight of the elf.

It was if she’d appeared from nothing.

She raised her hand to the rift and activated the Anchor. His magic pulsed from her and into the rift. All around her, the battle swarmed as demons clashed with the soldiers and fell shrieking to their deaths, but her focus was entirely on the rift. He watched as she figured it out for herself; fingers flexing, as if trying to grab hold of _something_ , arm shaking as she struggled to _pull_. And then, like a cord drawn too tight, it snapped. The aftershock blew her back in a stumble as the rift collapsed.

The last demon fell, and Cassandra stood over the last as she yanked her sword free of its chest.

Solas stepped toward the elf, noting the way she clenched her fist against the pain of using the Anchor. No matter how he calmed the Anchor, it would always pain her after each use because it was not hers to use and did not belong in her body. It was no different than if she’d been trying to use a sword without a hilt. Still, she had managed to seal it without assistance, and quicker than before. She was _improving_.

“Sealed, as before,” he said, letting his tenuous optimism color his tone. There was no harm in encouraging her. “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

Varric was at her other side, and laughed, “You’ve impressed the apostate, Snowflake. Quite the achievement. Let’s hope it works on the big one.”

The Seeker pulled one of the soldiers to her feet, helping her to stand. The soldier gave a groan of pain, before gasping, “Lady Cassandra! Maker, am I glad to see you!”

“I’m glad to see you’re alive as well, Lieutenant,” Cassandra replied, clearly pleased despite her effort to remain professional.

“Just barely,” the Lieutenant laughed, lifting her forearm. It was crudely bandaged, and a considerable amount of blood had soaked through. The other two soldiers looked no less worse for wear. “Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant,” the Seeker said, turning to give the Dalish woman a measured look. “She insisted we come this way.”

“The prisoner?” The Lieutenant gave Cassandra a puzzled look, before turning it on the elf. “Then you...?”

The elf stood rooted where she was, tensed. Still wary. As if she had expected something other than the soldier’s surprise. But there was something else in her face when she finally spoke.

“It was worth saving you, if we could,” she said, and bent slightly to incline her head toward the soldiers.

It was a sincere admission — of that he was certain — and it was  concern he saw in her face, despite whatever else she felt of the situation she was in . It heartened him, in some small way, to see that she felt concern beyond simply her own fate.

Perhaps he had underestimated this Dalish woman.

The soldier stepped forward briskly, thrusting her fist against her chest and declaring, “Then you have my sincere gratitude.”

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the time being. Go, while you still can,” the Seeker instructed.

“At once,” the Lieutenant replied. “Quickly, let’s move!”

The soldiers left with haste. Solas moved to lean on his staff, and remarked, “The path ahead appears to be clear of demons, as well.”

The Seeker moved past them, and headed down the path as she said, “Let’s hurry before that changes.”  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


More ladders.

 _Wonderful_.

At least going down them proved easier than climbing up. She waited until the last of them cleared the ladder, before hooking herself around the side of it. With a shift of her grip, gravity took care of the rest. She slid swiftly to the bottom and landed in a crouch.

The dwarf hooted at her, “Well, that’s one way to do it!”

As she watched them descend the next, the dwarf called up, “So you remember nothing at all? Not even how you survived?”

“Only before,” she called down. “I remember watching the forces march in. Nothing after that, until the prison.”

“Should have spun a story,” the dwarf reminded, almost playfully. “No one ever buys the amnesia bit, even when it’s true. And it’s not like holes just accidentally happen to open in the Fade, right?”

Tephra slid down the last ladder to join them at the bottom. Her knees ached something fierce as she straightened, and followed after them down the path. She listened to them as they continued to theorize and make sense of what lay before them.

“If enough magic is brought to bear, it _is_ possible,” Solas replied, as he fell in step with Varric.

She was glad that the subject took his attention from her. The apostate’s frequent stares were starting to unnerve her. It felt curiously as though he were looking _through_ her, as though she wasn’t really there.

The dwarf shot Solas a curious glance, “There are easier ways to make things explode, without—” Varric gestured broadly at the sky, “—doing _that_.”

“That is true,” the apostate agreed. “Yet that is assuming the explosion — and the destruction of the Conclave — was the intended result. I am not so certain it was, but merely the casualty of a larger design.”

Cassandra turned on her heel, briefly walking backwards as she said, “You think someone intended to create the Breach?”

“Perhaps,” Solas mused. “Or perhaps it also is another byproduct of what was truly intended. Without the truth, there is only speculation.”

Tephra flexed her hand. Whatever had happened, and whatever had been intended, it had left its mark on her. A hole in her as much as the one in the sky.

The path ended at a final stone staircase that descended into the temple proper.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas observed, staring up at the the jagged peaks of the crater’s rim.

“What’s left of it,” the dwarf muttered, stepping through the rubble.

The others continued on, but she came to a sudden halt at the top of the stairs, rooted in place as she was confronted by the terrible sight of it all.

At first, Tephra didn’t understand what she was looking at. Her eyes wouldn’t register it as the same landscape she’d seen just days before.

The temple was gone, as was the hill it was built upon. All that remained was a massive crater, rimmed with jagged peaks of rubble and stone that had fused in the heat of the explosion. Veins of green energy burned in them — Fade magic that had been embedded into the rock itself. Smoke continued to pour from it, from the areas still on fire. Parts of the temple walls remained, though tumbled and broken and shifted into new arrangements during the collapse. The funnel of verdant energy gyrated slowly from the heart of it all, stretching up to the hole in the sky.

It didn’t feel real. There was a macabre sense of unreality to it all.

Even after all of the bodies of the dead, the demons and the rifts, the Breach above, and now _this_ — it still felt like some waking nightmare she couldn’t free herself from.

She scanned the horizon for the tree she’d been in, hardly four days past. Where she had lounged and ate winter peaches while she watched the forces march in. The hill it had been on stood adjacent to the crater; it was blackened, and all the trees had been blown flat and charred from fires that had long-since died out.

_Creators, there’s nothing left._

How had she survived?

She felt numb as she stumbled along after the others as they descended into the temple. Her stomach heaved and churned sickly, and she was glad that it was empty for she would have surely vomited by now otherwise.

With each step, her cursed hand felt heavier. Even raising her head to stare up at the Breach took considerable effort; it felt as if the whole sky was pushing down on her. The urge to turn on her heel and run was overwhelming.

_How in the fucking Void am I supposed to make this right?_

“There.”

The Seeker stopped, and pointed at an indeterminate space in the wall of the crater’s rim. “That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said you passed immediately, and behind you in the rift they saw a woman. No one knows who she was.”

Briefly, the image of the glowing woman appeared in her mind. Reaching for her, taking hold of her hand. Had she been saved by that woman, whoever she was?

Another turn, another ledge down, and then—

The bodies.

The smell hit her first, overwhelming her senses, and then they were all she could see.

These were far worse than the ones that came before. They were twisted in agony, frozen in their last terrible moments before death. All flesh and identity stripped away in the blast and the following fires. Some were still burning. Arms outstretched, reaching for help, for anything, for—

Tephra staggered to the side and dropped to her knees, retching. Nothing came up but bile. Still, her body heaved from the horror of it all. There was a hand at her back.

“You okay, kid?”

Tephra sat back on her heels, and let out a shaky breath as her stomach finally stopped heaving. She gave a quick nod, not trusting herself to speak yet, lest she start throwing up again.

Varric patted her back, gently. When she moved to stand, he offered his hand to help and she let him.

They moved beyond the bodies and further into the fallen temple, descending into a mazework of broken walls. There were more of the dead along the way, and she could not help but look at them. There was nothing she could do for them, but witness what was done to them. They deserved at least that.

Ahead, the ruin of the temple had been haphazardly constructed into an almost amphitheater of levels. In the center of the crater, all that remained was the towering statue of Andraste. Her head and a portion of her torso had been cleaved off from the explosion, and the remaining arm was raised toward the hole in the sky. Hovering just before her was a massive rift.

“Breach is a long way up,” Varric said, turning a slow circle as he stared up at it.

Her eyes followed the river of energy that bled from the rift, stretching up into the sky in a funnel of power that fed into the Breach. Around it, the heavens churned in a slow gyre.

Her head swam with dizziness and she found herself staggered by the sheer size of it.

Not just what she saw with her eyes, but with what she could sense _beyond_ it — the whole of the Fade pressing down on her. It was so unfathomably massive, so colossal, so beyond anything that she could conceive of, and beyond that still, the Void itself, and all of it was pressing down against the hole in the sky as it funneled its way out, pressing down against the world, against _her_ —

“You’re here! Thank the Maker!”

Tephra turned to see the hooded woman come running from the corridor they’d just passed through. A squadron of soldiers followed after.

“The Commander’s forces are holding the valley as we speak. What precious time we’ve bought, we had better make it count,” Leliana informed.

Cassandra gave a tight nod, and ordered, “Have your men take up positions around the temple.”

Leliana gave a nod to her soldiers, and sent them off. She, however, remained with them as the Seeker moved to stand before Tephra.

“This is your chance to end this,” she said. “Are you ready?”

The weight of the sky bore down on her with every breath.

“I’m not even sure that I can reach it,” she replied, honestly.

“No,” the apostate said beside her, insistently. “This rift was the first, and it is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

 _Well, at least one of us thinks this will work_ , she thought, grimly.

“Then let’s find a way down,” the Seeker said. Even she seemed to be confident, or at least _driven_ , as though she would not even consider courting the idea of failure.

And in an odd way, it helped drive out the fear that had settled in Tephra. She gave a sharp nod, and for once, she was the first to move on down the path. Despite her fatigue, despite the weight of her hand, despite everything, she told herself; _This is not the day I die_.

**“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”**

The voice boomed around them, deep as thunder.

Tephra stumbled in surprise. The voice was familiar, known to her, but she could not place it. It belonged to something lost in the void in her memory.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra looked about them as the continued down the rubble pathway, clearly unsettled by it.

“At a guess? The person who created the Breach,” Solas replied.

Tephra recovered her balance and picked up speed down an incline as she turned a corner. She was confronted by the sight of something terrible and red and _glowing_ — she came to a skidding halt, and fell back on her ass. She came to a stop just before colliding with it. It was some kind of weird—

“Get away from it!”

Varric hauled her back by the collar of her coat, putting himself between her and whatever the hell it was that frightened him so. He gave the Seeker a panicked look, as he said, “You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker?”

“I see it, Varric,” Cassandra replied, sharply.

Tephra picked herself up from the ground, as Varric continued to press the Seeker, “But what’s it doing _here?_ ”

Solas mused, “Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple. Corrupted it.”

The dwarf made a sound of disgust, “It’s _evil_. Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

Her head throbbed from a sudden influx of questions that stirred in her mind, which added to the pressure of the Breach bearing down on her, but there was no time for questions. She continued on, taking care to cut a wide berth around the blooms of jarring red crystals that had erupted from the rubble like poisonous blossoms.

**“Keep the sacrifice still.”**

Again, the thunderous voice echoed through the crater. She could feel the vibrations from it in her bones.

**“Someone, please — help me!”**

A different voice. A woman’s.

The Seeker came to a halt, just before the ledge down into the heart of the crater. Too many emotions crowded her face as she declared, “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!”

Tephra could not stop. The momentum in her body drove her forward. Whether it was from the incline of the platform, or the pull of the Breach dragging her toward it, she could not say. She reached the end of the ledge and leapt.

She landed in a crouch, and rose on unsteady feet. The others landed behind her.

The very air _thrummed_ around her, thick with magic, as she stepped closer to the rift, until it was directly overhead. Verdant magic bloomed in her palm, heavy as the world and all the people in it.

Everything as she knew it and everyone in the world depended on her closing this rift, this tear in the world.

That truth was impossible to process. It was too much.

**“Someone, help me!”**

The woman again. Her pleas echoed around them.

**“What’s going on here?”**

Tephra’s blood ran cold at the sound of her own voice echoing through the crater.

The Seeker looked at her with bewilderment, “That was _your_ voice. Most Holy called out to you, but—”

The rift pulsed suddenly, and engulfed the crater with a blinding wash of light. When it subsided, there before the rift was a towering figure of smoke and shadows, with eyes that burned like embers. A woman in chantry attire was suspended before it — Divine Justinia — arms held out and bound by coils of red magic.

And then, Tephra saw herself — running into the scene, distraught and confused. **“What’s going on here?”**

The Divine cried out to her, **“Run while you can! Warn them!”**

The figure turned to face her, and lifted a long arm to point at her, **“We have an intruder. Slay the elf.”**

The rift pulsed again with light, and the vision dissolved.

Tephra’s pulse pounded in her ears. She had no memory of this and yet she couldn’t deny what she’d seen.

“You _were_ there!” Cassandra’s accusation came sharply from behind her. The Seeker charged forward, and berated her with a flurry of questions. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she — was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I _don’t_ remember,” Tephra insisted. How many times would she have to say it before they would finally start believing her?

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas mused, as he stepped past them and closer to the rift.

Cassandra followed after him quickly, as she struggled to make sense of what they’d just seen.

“This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily,” he said, before turning and locking his gaze on Tephra. “I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons! Stand ready!” The Seeker’s voice carried across the crater as she shouted the order.

Soldiers moved forward amongst them, drawing their weapons as they steeled themselves for what was to come. Above, archers moved into position with their bows drawn and arrows nocked. And then the Seeker turned back to Tephra; the woman’s face was a mix of emotions, but the clearest was determination. Whatever this Seeker believed of her guilt or innocence, she stood ready with her to face whatever may come. Varric held Bianca at the ready, and Solas began to cast warding magic around them all. She felt it tickle across her senses, like a cool breeze. All of them stood ready, waiting on her.

Tephra turned back to the rift. The inexorable _pull_ of it called to her. It felt like teetering on the edge of an abyss. Her right hand went to her sternum, to where her necklace lay beneath the coat she wore.

_If I die today, I will find you in the Beyond._

She raised her marked hand to the rift. The magic tore itself from her and shot upwards, locking into the rift. Tephra swayed where she stood, and caught herself. She locked her knees and braced herself against it, and _pushed_.

The rift pulsed and a massive stream of Fade energy shot out of it, striking the ground nearby. The demon unfurled in mid-air, massive and hulking and roaring, before it dropped to the ground below. As the monstrous demon rose to its full height, the Seeker shouted, “Now!”

Archers from every direction loosed upon the demon. Its rage echoed through the crater. And then, as if the one massive demon wasn’t enough to deal with, shades began pouring out through the rift.

They swarmed the soldiers, and chaos ensued.

Tephra scrambled away from the others as the massive demon advanced. Bow in hand, she skirted the combat and moved back toward a safer firing range. Magic from the rift spread through the crater in curtains of blinding green energy. It obscured her view of the others and at times the demon itself, so that she had to keep moving to keep sight of them.

When she moved through to a better vantage point and readied her bow, the apostate was suddenly at her side. He took hold of her arm and hauled her back toward the rift, as he shouted over the clamor, “It draws its strengths and defenses from the Fade! Disrupt the rift!”

She looked at him with bewilderment, “How?!”

“The Fade bends to the will of the mark — bend the mark to _your_ will!” With another shove, he sent her stumbling toward the rift and turned back just in time to divert a charging shade.

Her impulse was to fight, just as everyone else was. But he had been right about everything so far, or near enough to account for some level of faith. And if she could break that massive demon’s defenses and make the fight easier for them, then that was clearly what she needed to do.

She raised the mark to the rift, and _pushed_ again. The magic jolted through her, setting fire to her marrow. The pain was a punch to the gut, but she held her ground against it, and _shoved_.

The rift gave a spasm, and the shock wave washed over the entire crater.

The massive demon fell to its knee, hobbled and stunned. Several of the shades dissipated on contact when the shock wave washed over them.

Cassandra shouted over the commotion, “The demon is vulnerable! Focus all attacks on it, _now!_ ”

Volleys of magic and arrows rained down on the demon, and all manners of swords and blunt weapons were driven into and struck against its massive body.

Tephra raised her bow and followed suit, firing arrow after arrow despite the burning ache of her body. Adrenaline pushed her through the pain and fatigue.

The demon’s moment of weakness did not last long. It bellowed its anger as it grabbed hold of the closest soldier and took him by the head. The man’s scream did not last long beneath the crush of its massive hand.

Enraged, the Seeker gave an inarticulate cry and drove her sword into the demon’s flank at a furious pace.

Tephra stopped firing and turned back to the rift. Again, she let the magic tear through her. Another shock wave brought the demon to its knees.

With her focus turned back to the massive demon as she fumbled to ready her bow, Tephra did not see the shade charging toward her. The weight of it pummeled into her from behind, sending her sprawling to the ground. She lost her hold on the bow as she rolled across the rocky ground, trying to push the creature off of her. It reared back to swipe its clawed hands at her, again and again, tearing wildly at her coat. She kept her arms raised, blocking it from tearing at her face.

A wave of blistering heat passed over her, and she felt the weight of it leave her. And then Varric was crouching beside her, pulling her up by the arm.

“Bad time to take a nap, Snowflake!” The dwarf laughed like a madman, and then he was off again, firing upon the monsters.

She felt slightly singed as she stumbled back towards the rift, and oddly numb. Breathing was difficult, and sense of tightness had closed around her chest. Her breaths came shallow no matter how hard she tried to draw air into her lungs. There was pain, but any pain beyond the mark was diffuse and insignificant.

The fighting continued around her as she made her way back towards the rift. She was stumbling and slow, but all she could focus on was the _pull_ of the Breach.

_Almost there. Almost done._

The massive demon was brought down to its hands and knees off to the side, in her peripheral.

The Seeker shouted at her, “Now! Seal the rift! _Do it!_ ”

 _One more time_.

Tephra raised her hand once more, and felt her entire being split open.

Everything that she was ceased to be in that moment as the mark’s power poured through her, and out of her. It took everything with it — her breath, her memory, her pulse, her spirit — as it rushed out of her and clashed against the pull of the Breach. The weight of the Fade crushed down against her, and for one shining, blinding moment, she was not there in the crater, but somewhere _else_ —

The world around her suffused, became not one but two that were _one together_ , like an image laid over an image and set alight; the world was not simply the world but _more_ , and the sound of it crashed in against her in a terrible song — a chorus, a cacophony, many and one and all the same — and all of it in the shadow of a shining empire—

The power of the mark hooked like an anchor inside the rift and she knew by instinct to _pull_ , so she did with all the strength left to her.

The rift collapsed in on itself, and the resulting shock wave shot up the funnel of green energy that once connected it to the Breach. The collision sent ripples of magic across the sky in a brief, blinding wash of light.

And all at once, the weight lifted.

Her breath came back to her, and all the rest with it.

Varric slapped her shoulder, laughing and hooting, “You did it, kid!”

The sudden movement sent fire through her chest, but her ragged gasp was lost in the uproar. All around her, the soldiers whooped and celebrated.

Her marked hand trembled as the pain swept over her. She balled it into a tight fist, which turned the rigid line of her knuckles white as she held it to her chest with the other hand. The different sources of pain competed for priority, but it was a brief conflict as suddenly, she felt nothing. Her head swam, and there was a strange ragged sound in her ears. Was that the sound of her breathing? Why did it sound like that? A curious sense of calm settled over her, and everything felt distant.

Tephra took a step, and then another, before her knees gave out beneath her.

Strong arms caught hold of her and brought her gently to the ground. Her sight came and went out of focus, but then she saw that it was Varric who held her. He was knelt beside her, holding her up in his arms against his chest.

“Get the healers!” His shout boomed thunderously in his chest against her ear. “Snowflake, she’s — she’s hurt! Do _something!_ ”

 _What a stupid nickname,_ she thought to herself.

It occurred to her that it would be a shame to die just now and not tell him. It was only a name, after all, and he had been kind to her.

“Tephra,” she said, though her voice was lost in the clamor of the shouting soldiers.

The dwarf leaned his face down close to hers, “What was that, love?”

“Tephra,” she repeated. “That’s my name.”

And then the darkness claimed her once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a difficult time writing short chapters. I will try (and probably fail) to keep them from running on too long in the future.
> 
> Elven translations:  
> Ma nuvenin. — As you wish.


	4. Divine Directive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic soundtrack: [Vol. 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWxqaMoMlDk&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnkUv8DNduRv8MBn7Y-5KDXx) (Covers Chapters 4―8)

Some things are too terrible to grasp at once. Other things ―  
naked, sputtering, indelible in their horror ― are too terrible to  
really ever grasp at all. It is only later, in solitude, in memory, that  
the realization dawns: when the ashes are cold; when the mourners  
have departed; when one looks around and finds oneself, quite to  
one’s surprise, in an entirely different world.  
_―Donna Tartt, The Secret History_  
  
  


“ _Go to sleep, little bird._ ”

But he wouldn't. He was always a bundle of restless energy, ready to wander. Wriggling free and running off and making it all entirely too difficult. He was a terrible little thing that made her heart seize in fits of fear and love in equal measure. Didn't he understand how _dangerous_ everything was?

“ _No, you wake up_ ,” he insisted and curled close. “ _The story isn't done yet_.”

Tephra woke slowly to the sound of a crackling fire.

A heavy layer of blankets lay over her, stiflingly warm. She pushed them off as she sat slowly, grimacing at the stiffness in her body. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and a few errant tears. Her head pounded with grogginess as she held her face in her hands, waiting out a sudden rush of dizziness. When her senses came back to her, Tephra realized that she'd once again been stripped. Not simply of armor, but they'd taken much of her clothing this time as well.

Her traveling pants had been replaced with thin leggings of unbleached cotton. Her torso was bare but for the bandages wound around her chest and up around her shoulder. She recognized this type of bandage-work and took a slow, deep breath, which was met by a familiar pain. _Cracked rib_. At least two, if she had to guess. She remembered the time she'd been bucked off a young wild hart who’d had no intentions of being bridled. The other youths of her clan who'd dared her to try laughed and derided her for the weeks to follow. There was another pain as well, more subtle, stitched somewhere deep in her lung. She remembered losing breath, how each one came shorter than the last, until she passed out in the dwarf's arms. She took another deep breath for good measure, just to be sure. It came easy, but for the stitch of pain from her ribs.

Her shoulder was a stiff ball of knotted pain, which was also familiar as she'd dislocated it twice in the past. _Third time's the charm_ , she mused, grimly, as she remembered the shade knocking her to the ground. And then later, Varric slapping her shoulder. It would seem the dwarf had unknowingly finished what the shade had started with his congratulatory love-tap. Someone else had pulled the joint back into place, thankfully, but it would still be at least a week until it didn't feel like she had broken glass embedded in the damned thing. And there were angry red welts of rent flesh below it on her bicep, stitched closed with tidy sutures.

The shade must have torn through more than just her coat, after all.

Sudden alarm gripped her. Her hand shot to her sternum, and was met with the smooth curl of her necklace. It had not been lost there at the Breach, nor had whoever treated her taken it from her. It would have been nothing to them, but it was everything to her.

The stitched wounds were clean, and the rest of her had been as well. Thoroughly scrubbed in her unconscious state. Even her hair had been washed in some manner. However practical the many invasions of her person had been, it reawakened her anger. A futile, useless, _embarrassed_ rage. First, they had wanted her dead, and now they'd labored to keep her alive. The sudden shift in her treatment was enough to give her whiplash.

Tephra looked at her marked hand with spite. _But only because of this_ , she thought, bitterly.

She winced as she threw her legs over the side of the bed, and immediately took stock of her surroundings. Two small windows, and a single door — neither barred nor locked that she could tell. A simple cabin, rather than the prison cell she’d been kept in previously.

Was she no longer considered a prisoner, or was this a more lenient form of captivity?

The cabin was practically lavish in comparison to the prison cell, but still it reflected the Ferelden sense of utility over finery. A desk, tall shelves with various supplies and items, storage barrels. A raven stirred restlessly in a large cage by the window, eyeing her warily as she stood. Tephra stepped lightly through the cabin, keeping as quiet as she had in the prison; for all she knew, there were guards waiting outside. Guards that could easily drag her back down beneath the chantry, and back into that cell. Perhaps the nicer accommodations had simply been a courtesy afforded to her for cooperating, one that could easily be revoked at any time.

She did not need metal around her wrists to feel the clasp of captivity.

On the desk, clothing had been left for her, clean and folded neatly. There was also a new coat, and—

Tephra's gut clenched at the sight of her traveling pack.

Between the possibility of it being vaporized in the explosion or confiscated by her captors, she'd given up any hope of ever recovering it. She opened it and immediately began to rummage through the items at an almost frenzied pace. It was no more than a modestly sized pack filled with various supplies, nothing she couldn't replace if lost, except for — _there_.

They were still there.

Tephra let out a slow, steadying breath as she pulled out a small leather-bound book. She pressed it to her face and breathed in the comforting scent of the old leather. It had been her father's gift to her, a promise to keep at the work he'd started her on. She held it against her chest as she pulled out the other item — a small dagger. It was a simple thing, neither ornate nor particularly valuable beyond the merit of being carved from the antler of a halla. But it had been her mother's, given to her in a moment of urgency and farewell, and that made it precious to her.

She held them to her chest, with the necklace between them. They were everything; they were the home she carried with her wherever she went.

The door made little sound as it opened behind her, but in the quiet cabin it was jarringly loud to her ears. Tephra put the book down on the desk and turned on her heel; she held the dagger out of sight at her hip as she kept her body sideways and assumed a defensive position, braced for whatever may come.

The intruder turned out to be a young elf, not even eighteen summers old by Tephra's estimate. She had short auburn hair brushed back from her face and cat-green eyes, and looked supremely pleased with herself as she all but silently toed the door shut behind her. She was carrying a small crate in her arms as she turned and made her way in, stepping carefully and actively trying to remain quiet so as to not wake—

The girl caught sight of the empty bed, and her face went slack with shock before she turned to face Tephra. The crate tumbled from her grip in an unceremonious crash as she gave a horrified gasp, “O-oh!”

Tephra set the dagger down on the desk in a concealed movement. The girl was just a servant of some sort, neither a guard nor a threat.

“I didn't know you were awake, I-I swear,” she said, stumbling over her words anxiously.

Tephra frowned, “What are you frightened of?”

It wasn't a question she really needed to ask at this point, honestly. She already knew the answer.

The girl fidgeted with her hands as she fell back a step, “That's wrong, isn't it? I said the wrong the thing.”

Was this her life now? To be met with fear at every turn?

At least this one wasn't trying to kill her.

“I don't think so,” Tephra said, gently, trying to assuage the girl's fear. “Why would it be wrong?”

Hell, she couldn't really blame the girl. If she'd met a half-naked cursed person with cataclysmic magic seared into their hand and the ability to open and close the Fade and loose hordes of demons upon the world, she'd flee in fear as well. At the very least.

To Tephra's abject horror, the girl fell to the floor in supplication.

“I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing,” the girl pleaded, forehead pressed to the floor. “I am but a humble servant.”

“What are you — oh, for _fuck's sake,_ please get up,” she said, resisting the urge to yank the girl up by the collar. What in the void was she doing? Was this some kind of terrible joke?

The girl looked up hesitantly.

“ _Up_ ,” Tephra insisted, sharply.

The elf rose from the floor, slowly and awkwardly, as she said, “You are back in Haven, my lady.”

“Yes, I assumed as much,” she replied, trying to calm the annoyance in her tone.

Her thoughts turned to the last thing she remembered; Varric cradling her in his arms after she closed the rift feeding the Breach. She was alive and Haven still existed — had it worked?

“They say you saved us,” the girl continued, as though she'd somehow divined Tephra's thoughts. “The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

And as though summoned, the mark flared in her palm when Tephra looked at it. Curiously, she felt no pain as she had before. Not so much as a twitch in the muscles.

“It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days.” The girl was staring intently at the glimmer in Tephra's hand, as though transfixed by it.

Another three days? No wonder her body felt so stiff. She gave the girl a curious frown, “So, you're saying that they're... pleased with me?”

“I-I'm only sayin' what I heard, I-I didn't mean anything by it,” she replied, fidgeting with her hands again as she backed further towards the door.

Tephra tried again to calm her, as she asked, “What's your name?”

The girl went white as a sheet and gaped. She shook herself, and stammered, “I-it's Nim, my Herald. I mean, your lady. _M-my_ lady!”

She stared at the young elf, incredulous. This fear was rooted in something different than before, when she was hauled out through Haven from the prison. She couldn't place it, but it was crucially different, and _weirder_.

“I'm certain lady Cassandra would want to know you've wakened,” Nim said, her back bumping up against the door. “She said at once.”

“And where is she?”

Nim was trembling visibly as she answered, “In the chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. At once, she said.”

With that, the girl fled. She was polite enough to close the door behind her, at least.

Tephra sighed. It was only a matter of time before anyone came for her, so it was just as well that she go to them first. It was only a small measure of autonomy, but she'd take it nonetheless.

She went back to the desk, to where the clothes had been left for her, and began to dress. It was simple, practical fare, which suited her fine. Olive drab traveling pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. A lightweight armored leather jerkin. A good belt with various holds and fastens. Sturdy gloves and boots. But the coat — now that was a fine coat. Better than the one she had before. Heavy, well-made. Many pockets for storage. It was a deep charcoal, not quite black, and made of finer fabrics than anything she’d ever owned. Shrugging it on took careful effort, with her shoulder flaring with pain at each rotation and movement.

She repacked the book and sheathed the dagger at her waist. There was no sign of her bow in the cabin, so either it had been lost at the Conclave, or they still meant to keep her mostly unarmed. Either way, she would find a means of replacement before she left.

Staying was certainly out of the question.

Her mission was essentially over with, and she'd done what the Seeker asked of her. What more could there be? Hadn't she closed the hole in the sky? She shrugged on her traveling pack in an unhurried manner, and let herself have a small moment where she could believe that to be true. A moment to believe that the world had been saved, and that she could go home. And then she headed for the door, and tried to ignore the dread settling and spreading in the pit of her stomach, and hoped for blue skies.

When she opened the door, she was confronted with something far worse.

_Oh, gods._

There were soldiers flanking the path that ran from the cabin door and into the township. They stood stock-still, with their fists thrown up against their chests in salute. And every citizen and refugee pressed in close behind them, craning for a look at her. The silence of the crowds was unnerving, as if they held their collective breath.

She wasn't sure what exactly she had expected when she left the cabin, whether resistance from the guards or something else, but _this?_ The mood of the crowd was not the anger from before, but rather something else. Something unsettlingly close to reverence.

_What in the Void is this shit?_

It took everything inside her to not simply turn on her heel and barricade herself inside the cabin. Or to retreat, cloak herself, and flee the town outright. An anxious tempest raged in the pit of her stomach as she shut the door behind herself with feigned calmness and began to follow the road to the chantry.

 _I will not show fear,_ she thought to herself as voices began to pick up around her in furious whispers. She kept her face still, despite the panic growing inside of her.

“There she is!”

“That's her — that's the Herald of Andraste.”

Her step faltered, but she kept walking.

_The fucking — what?_

She tried to keep her eyes trained ahead, on the road, but it was useless. With each strange utterance that plucked at her ears, her eyes turned to meet stares as wide-eyed as hers. She moved quickly for the stairs, hoping that the procession of onlookers would cease. As she crested the top of the stairs, she made the mistake of looking _up_.

The Breach remained.

Dizziness washed over her, and she felt herself start to tumble to the side. Armored hands caught her by the arm and steadied her. She recoiled from the soldier, suddenly recalling the brutal treatments carried out by the templars.

Despite her sudden defensive posture, the guard gave her a gentle expression and inclined his head in deference, “Steady now, Herald.”

 _Not a templar_.

Yet, the fear was still there.

This sudden shift in demeanor towards her from these people was utterly bizarre — going from screaming for her death, to whatever this strange reverence was. She straightened and gave him an awkward nod, before turning back toward the road. Inevitably, there were more people crowding the sidelines, waiting to get a look at her.

Tephra felt the muscles in her face twitch and jerk as she tried to keep her emotions reigned in.

The road to the left was nearly blocked with onlookers. She did not care to try and push her way through. She headed the other way, trying to keep moving before she lost her nerve altogether and fled for the gates.

There were a myriad of makeshift tents that lined the streets and filled spaces between buildings. This place — _Haven_ — had truly taken on its namesake and was filled to the brim with refugees.

She came around a bend in the road and nearly tripped over herself as she stumbled to a halt. A whole group of them were knelt down, waiting for her. Even the soldiers. Even the _templars_.

 _For fuck's sake_.

“Maker be with you,” a chantry sister said, and her words were echoed by the many other mouths.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her anxiety in check. It was just too weird — too unsettling.

She'd almost lost her nerve to keep moving onward to the chantry, when she caught sight of them.

The dwarf and the mage were idling near the entrance of what looked to be a tavern. Varric caught her gaze and returned it warmly with a smile and wink. She felt a wash of relief settle over her, as she gave a quick nod of acknowledgement back. Solas, however, was regarding her with an intent frown. Once again, she had the curious feeling of being seen through entirely, as though she weren’t quite real.

 _Well, at least one of them is happy to see me_.

They ducked into the tavern long before she could make her way close enough to speak to either of them. However, her anxiety had been briefly bridled and she pressed on to the chantry. She kept her gaze fixed at the heavy doors.

 _Almost there_.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


“The poor thing looks terrified,” the dwarf observed.

“She is wise to be,” Solas remarked. “The whim of the many can be as fickle as the wind, and shift just as quickly.”

“I do not envy her,” Varric replied as he shook his head, his smile having gone grim, before ducking into the tavern.

Solas followed after, but lingered at the window as he watched her navigate the press of people trying to see their newly appointed savior.

His agents still had no information on her yet, so she remained an unknown element to him. An improbability. A riddle that pulled at him to be solved.

She'd finally given her name, but even that was of little use without knowing her clan of origin. Even the Spymaster had not come up with anything yet. The only thing he was certain of was that she was possibly too stubborn to die. She'd survived far longer than he had ever expected her to — as though she were a fated foil to the magister himself. He persisted in death; she persisted in life. Twice now, she had danced to the edge of death, and survived — she _endured_ — and he allowed himself a cautiously small thrill in the victory of it.

The Breach was stabilized and that had bought him time to fix this mess, to course-correct. And she was alive, which meant she could be guided, and be of use to him for the greater good.

There had been a moment, though, when he had thought all was lost during the battle at the Breach.

He could not lose sight of her among the clash of soldiers and demons, no matter where he was in the battlefield. She was an emerald beacon shining amidst the chaos — until she fell.

It was the absence of that light that had alerted him to something being wrong. The shade was on her before anyone else took notice of it, and time staggered between the moment he spotted it and the moment he hurtled the spell to blast it off of her. And it stopped altogether as she lay there, unmoving.

But then the dwarf was beside her, laughing and jesting and hauling her to her feet. She swayed and staggered, but her focus was entirely on the rift. Pale and bloodied, but calm — still alive. And then his breath returned. Occupied with throwing the full force of his diminished strength at the pride demon, all he could do was steal glances at her as she made her way toward the rift, and hope.

Desperately hope—

 _Please, let this work_.

And then, as the pride demon fell, she opened herself completely to the Anchor.

Solas felt the power of the Breach and the Fade engulf her, felt the madness of a mortal being filled by a power far beyond them. And for a startling moment, she was neither a shadow nor a mortal, but whole as he was, filled with the magic, with the _song_ , with the memory of the world before — and then it was gone, and she fell into the arms of the dwarf as he shouted for the medics.

He’d gotten to her first, crouching and putting a hand to her chest and attempting to aid her ragged breathing but what little strength he had left had been depleted in the fight against the demons. His magic probed through her chest cavity, feeling for the source of injury, but it had been far too long since he'd had to deal with grievous battle wounds and the mechanism of injury was unfamiliar to him. All he could sense was that something was very wrong with her lung, and that he could feel the life teetering inside of her. On the edge of death, with only moments to spare. And so he began to prepare himself to receive the Anchor.

But in his concentration, he failed to take notice of the medic who'd arrived until he was unceremoniously shoved to the side and off his balance while the medic instructed the dwarf to lay the woman flat on the ground. Despite his annoyance, Solas watched with interest as the the medic produced a dagger. Without hesitation, he succinctly sheared open her coat and the top she wore beneath it, baring her bloodied chest. The medic bent over her and pressed his ear to the right side of her chest and then the other, listening to her shallow breaths. In the time it took the soldier to do that, she stilled.

Her face had gone sheet-white and her lips were turning blue. She was no longer breathing.

“Maker,” the dwarf cursed, looking stricken. “Do _something_.”

“I am,” the medic replied, with an exceptionally calm tone.

It should have been in that moment that he took the Anchor back. Death was upon her. Yet, something stilled his hand as he watched the medic work.

The human produced a small instrument from his satchel. It was nothing more than a thin metal tube with a tapered end. And then, much to Solas's surprise, the medic _stabbed_ her with it between her ribs. In the silence that had fallen across the battlefield, he could hear the faint sound of air passing through the tube. With his free hand, the medic rubbed his knuckles against her sternum. The action caused the woman to stir, and take a sudden, deep inhale.

Solas moved back to the woman's side and reapplied his hands, letting the magic pierce her again. He could feel the wound now beneath the lung, where the visceral pleura had been torn. He directed healing magic to it, letting it knit the viscera back together as it branded a seal across the tear. There was internal bleeding as well, but again his magic sought out those breaches and stabilized them, just as she had stabilized the one in the sky above them.

By the time he was done, she was stable enough to be transported back to Haven. They carried her out of the temple ruins and were met by auxiliary forces that had gathered outside with wagons to transport the wounded and the dead. As the woman was laid out and prepared for travel, one of the templars moved to shackle her, but Seeker Pentaghast's voice cracked like a whip.

“Do _not_.”

The man recoiled swiftly at the ferocity in the Seeker's voice. She raised her voice so that she could be heard by all that were present, as she declared, “This woman is no longer our prisoner, nor suspected of having been involved with the destruction of the Conclave. Do not treat her as such. She is the reason we are all currently still alive.”

By the time the procession made it back to Haven, they were enthralled by the tales of the soldiers who'd fought alongside the woman and witnessed her stabilizing the Breach. The stories spread swiftly and amidst the speculation, the title spawned organically among them.

 _The Herald of Andraste_.

Ridiculous — but, ultimately useful.

“You're doing that thing again,” Varric's voice cut through his bout of reminiscence effectively. “You know, where you check out of reality and go wherever it is you go when you do that.”

Outside the window, the woman had long-since passed by and the onlookers had dispersed.

“I thought you fell asleep standing up there for a moment. Looked like some kind of weird dreamy-Fade thing,” the dwarf mused.

“Not at all, Master Tethras,” Solas replied. “Simply far too much self-reflection.”

“Self-reflection? Funny, I would have said it was entirely reflected on _her,_ ” Varric quipped, with sharp smile.

“Simply concern for the well-being of our Herald,” Solas replied, in a clipped tone. “She would not have been wounded as such if the Seeker had not stripped her of her armor and sent her into the fray unprotected.”

“As much as I agree with that statement, we should probably keep it to ourselves,” Varric mused. “I do believe execution is still on the table when it comes to us lowly tagalongs.”

“Just so,” Solas agreed.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Tephra idled outside of the war room, listening to the heated exchanged between the Chancellor and the Seeker.

It did nothing to ease her apprehension, as it seemed to be a discussion on what to do with her, specifically. Which was not terribly surprising if she was honest with herself.

“Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whoever becomes Divine.”

 _The Chancellor_. Angry and incredulous as he spit the words out.

And then came the Seeker's voice, “I do not believe she is guilty.”

Calm, and full of conviction. It startled Tephra to hear it.

What had changed so drastically that the furious Seeker, so intent on her guilt, had shifted her opinion so completely?

“The elf _failed_ , Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”

_Of course._

The ones outside didn't fool her; she was certain the majority of the templars and the chantry still viewed her as implicitly involved with it all.

Cassandra's calm did not last as she shot back, “I do not believe that!”

“That is not for you to decide,” the Chancellor reminded, impatiently. “Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

“My duty is to serve the principals on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor, as is yours.”

There was a lull of silence that settled somewhere inside the room. Her momentary distraction had passed and she had no other means to justify a further delay. But the Seeker's words had emboldened her, if only slightly. She swallowed her anxiety, and opened the door.

As she stepped past the two guards, Chancellor Roderick gave a start at the sight of her. He collected himself, and commanded, “Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capitol for trial.”

“Disregard that, and leave us,” Cassandra said from where she remained leaning over a massive table and eyeing a lavish map. Leliana stood at her side, rigid and silent.

Cassandra straightened and fixed Tephra with a brief, unreadable expression, before turning back to the Chancellor.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” he warned.

“The Breach is stable but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.” The Seeker's tone was steady as steel.

“So, I'm still a suspect,” Tephra said, breaking the tense silence that had settled between the two. “Even after what we just did?”

Roderick fixed her with a vicious look, “You absolutely are.”

“No,” Cassandra interjected, firmly. “She is not.”

Leliana spoke up then, stepping forward, “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave — someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others, or have allies that yet live.”

The Chancellor was incredulous. “ _I'm_ a suspect?!”

“You, and many others.”

“But not the _prisoner?_ ”

“I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help,” Cassandra said. Again, the Seeker fixed her with a sharp stare that was hard to read.

The closest emotion she could discern was... _optimism?_ Guarded and cautious, but it was there.

Roderick crossed his arms, skeptical, “So her survival — that thing on her hand — all a coincidence?”

“ _Providence_ ,” the Seeker corrected, with a small smile. “The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Oh. _That_ again.

The unease came crashing back, and Tephra gave an incredulous laugh, “You realize I'm an elf? A Dalish elf?”

“I have not forgotten,” Cassandra replied. “No matter what you are or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed, when we needed it.”

With that, the Seeker turned abruptly and departed into an alcove.

“The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it,” Leliana said, speaking directly to her and ignoring the Chancellor.

“This is not for you to decide!” Roderick snapped.

Cassandra returned, carrying a heavy tome. She slammed it down on the table, to great effect as the Chancellor startled at the sound.

The symbol on its cover was similar to the ones Tephra had seen emblazoned around the town and inside the chantry, but also different — an eye in the center of a blazing sun.

Pressing her pointed finger to the book, Cassandra asked, “Do you know what this is, Chancellor?”

“I know what that is,” Roderick replied meekly, with sudden unease.

Cassandra stood taller, more sure of herself, as she continued, “It is a writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to _act_. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

She stalked toward the Chancellor, who shrank back a step with each she took toward him, “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible and we will restore order — with or without your approval!”

Roderick looked between the Seeker and the Spymaster, and then finally to Tephra, before relenting in frustration. He turned on his heel and left quickly, without a further word of protest.

As the tension broke, Cassandra began to pace indecisively, and ran a hand through her short, dark hair. Leliana stepped around the table, and said, “This is the Divine's directive: Rebuild the Inquisition of old, and find those who will stand against the chaos.”

Tephra shifted from one foot the other, uneasy. Something was building here, and she could feel it pressing in around her. Another trap — another prison.

Leliana locked her hands behind her back, as she continued, “We aren't ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now? No Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice.” Cassandra stopped pacing. Her brief moment of indecision had passed, and she was all steel again as she turned to Tephra, and said, “We must act now, with _you_ at our side.”

Her pulse quickened and her heart beat an irregular, anxious percussion in her ears. _There it is._

The option of leaving was being taken from her — if it had ever remained to her at all, after the Conclave.

She focused on what she knew, and tried to keep up with their dramatic speech.

Her knowledge of human history was nowhere near complete by any means, but she knew enough to know vaguely what the original Inquisition was. The Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth had spawned from the original organization, after allying with the chantry. Her interest in the subject, however, had primarily been in that the last Inquisitor had been an elf. That had been just before the organization's dissolution.

A dragon hunter from the Dales.

Ameridan _,_ who loved the dreamer-mage Telana. A striking figure in stories told around the campfires. But then, he'd also been a prominent figure long before the Inquisition.

She wasn't anyone of prominence; she was just a hunter. Just—

The mark on her hand sparked, and glimmered faintly.

 _That_.

She made a fist until the mark snuffed out, and left only the barest glimmer on her skin to speak of its existence. Tephra frowned at Cassandra, “Aren't you part of the Chantry?”

Cassandra gave a rough laugh, “Is that what you see?”

“The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction,” Leliana informed.

“But _we_ cannot wait. So many Grand Clerics died at the Conclave—” Cassandra stopped herself, and shook her head, “No. We are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

The “we” was a heavy implication that clutched dangerously at her. Tephra's pulse had quickened, but she kept her face under tight control.

“You're trying to start a holy war,” she stated, thinking of the Chantry. Thinking of the Exalted Marches. Thinking of all of the terrible things done in the name of an absent god. How did Ameridan reconcile being the head of a force that marched against his own people? How could she?

“We are already at war. You are already involved. Its mark is upon you,” Cassandra replied, sharply. “As to whether the war is holy — that depends on what we discover.”

Tephra's pulse pounded in her ears. Her marked hand flexed involuntarily as her mind turned back to the hole in the sky. Stable for now, but how long? Months? Years?

And then — what? The end of everything?

_They should just cut it off of me and be done with it._

There was no choice here, only the horrible trap of a terrible fate closing in around her.

Even asking was futile, but still, she asked. “And if I refuse?”

Leliana regarded her with a cool stare, “You can go, if you wish.”

“You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us,” Cassandra added, rather heatedly.

Again, she was confronted with the woman's small hope, gleaming through what small cracks Tephra could find in her armor. The Seeker wanted her to stay; perhaps even _needed_ her to.

“It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend this hasn't changed you,” the Seeker said.

The woman was right, but in more ways than she assumed.

Tephra _had_ changed. The anger that coiled inside her from how the templars treated her was new. It lurked behind her every word, waiting to lash out at how they all had treated her as nothing more than the vessel carrying the cursed mark. As guilty. As complicit in mass murder. In world-ending. And—

She could not forget how it felt each time she let the magic tear through her — the whole of her opened up to an unknowable, terrible force that had touched ever particle of her being. An experience she had never asked for, let alone consented to. Perhaps it would have been a different experience if she had been a mage, if she had known what it was like to have that kind of magic coursing through her regularly — but she wasn't, and she didn't.

The last time had been beyond anything she could ever put to words. What would the next one feel like if the magic kept soaring to greater and greater heights of power? How could survive something like that?

And the only alternative was death.

Either at the hands of someone who feared her, or when the world finally ended as the sky tore open again.

Still no choice, not really — only submission.

Her jaw worked silently.

 _I can always leave later, if I must_.

“We'll see how this goes,” she said, finally.

“That is all we ask,” Leliana replied, as relief swept over her face. Her expressions were usually so well-guarded from overt emotion; it was surprising to see the sudden sincerity there.

“Help us fix this,” Cassandra bid as she offered Tephra her arm, hand extended and waiting.

She took hold of it and they clasped forearms.

Cassandra turned her arm to inspect Tephra's hand, before giving her a curious look, “You are left-handed? How... unfortunate.”

That was true enough. It was just her luck that this strange magic would have laid claim to her dominant hand.

She couldn't even imagine the best case scenario outcome in which she didn't end up maimed or killed by this thing. All she could hope for was that it wouldn't take her ability to shoot a bow, or to write. Her two passions, tied intrinsically to that damn hand.

Cassandra turned Tephra's hand over to inspect the back of it. It was still mottled with old bruises and abrasion scabs from her futile attempts to remove it in the prison. As though this terrible magic could be knocked loose or scraped off like a parasite. She gave a grimace, and said, “Have the apothecary look to this. Solas as well. Between the two of them, I'm sure we can make sure that it stays... stable.”

“Otherwise I'm not much use, am I?” she snarked, grimly.

The Seeker's mouth was a tight line of disapproval. “Return here when you're done. There are other matters to address,” she replied, ignoring the dark jest.

 _I don't think she quite likes me much_ , Tephra mused.

A shame, really, as she was certain she was just starting to warm up to the Seeker, despite the woman's severe personality.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Her steps were lighter as she left the chantry, if only marginally so.

She was required to return, of course, but for the moment her time was her own. At least insofar as seeking out medical treatment, but that wouldn't take very long. Most of her grievous injuries had already been seen to and were well on their way to healing. She would check in quickly, and then take what little time she could to find a quiet place and process everything.

Because truly, she felt like she was going to burst from the absurdity of it all. The absurdity of her — _an elf_ — being paraded around as a savior-figure for a largely human religion, as the _Herald of Andraste_. The world was ending and they had to rely on a “rabbit” to save them. The absolute ridiculousness of it filled her with a dark sort of amusement. And there was no one to share in it, to relieve her of this terrible burden for even a moment with a conspiratory laugh.

Except, there was.

She thought of the mage — _Solas_.

An odd one, to be sure, but interesting nonetheless. An apostate and self-taught scholar on the Fade; _that_ was of interest to her. Not simply in and of itself, but also in that he might know the truth of it all — of the Beyond. If anyone would know that truth, it would be the dreamer-mages. But they were nearly unheard of in these times; no one she’d ever known had met one, nor had she personally met one before.

A part of her was bursting at the idea of asking, but also filled with an equal measure of dread. She'd held onto this small hope for so long; she didn't want to have to part with it if the truth was not what she expected.

But no matter.

If anyone could understand the ridiculousness of her situation, it would be him — being that he was an elf, such as herself. And she was in terrible need of a laugh.

The crowds had dispersed, but groups still cluttered along, and gaped at her as she passed. She quickly remedied it by leaving the main road, and following the rocky formations that served as a partial border to the township.

The apothecary's residence wasn't far from the chantry, and easily spotted by the array of medical supplies displayed outside the entrance. The cabin adjacent to it was assigned to the mage for the time being, and she found him standing against a low stone wall. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for her.

As she neared, he fixed her with an amused smile and declared, “The Chosen of Andraste — a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Her gut twisted uncomfortably at his jest. “I didn't ask for this,” she replied, hand flexing involuntarily with anxiety. “But I suppose no one ever really does, do they? And someone has to find a way to seal this breach.”

“Spoken nobly indeed,” he replied, in a clipped tone. Whatever humor had been there, quickly retreated.

She frowned, despite herself.

“You think I'm mocking you.” His amusement returned, if briefly, as he said, “This age has made people cynical.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “As opposed to, what — an age without cynicism?”

Her question stirred something in him at her question. He gave her a brief, calculated look before he turned and cast himself into an almost theatrical, lilting spiel, “I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.”

He stopped long enough to turn back and regard her with curiosity, before he said, “Every great war has its heroes; I'm just curious what kind you'll be.”

Her anxiety resurfaced at that term — _hero_. Just as much a trap as anything, and just as ridiculous as the other title she'd been given.

She diverted from the subject quickly, and asked, “What do you mean, ruins and battlefields?”

Something unfolded in him. Like a tightly-wound coil loosening, just so. He was suddenly very present, as though he'd been merely spectating before, from somewhere deeper inside of himself.

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits; they press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds,” he enthused. His tone was lighter now, stirred almost to excitement. Tentative excitement, but excitement nonetheless. “When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

_Sleeping in ruins._

She could have smiled at that, but she didn't. She thought briefly, of her childhood. Perhaps he'd care to hear that story, one day.

For the moment, she simply asked, “You sleep amongst the ruins? Isn't that dangerous?”

Of course it was — she knew well enough from her own experiences. But still, it amused her to ask nonetheless.

“I do set wards,” he replied, with an amused smile. “And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live, and let live.”

“I've never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade,” she admitted. “That's extraordinary.”

“Thank you,” he replied, with sincerity. He considered her for a moment with a thoughtful expression, before adding, “It's not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. Yet the thrill of finding the remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

Solas gave a sudden look of determination, as if he'd come to some crucial internal decision. “I will stay, then. At least until the Breach is closed.”

His sudden declaration threw her off. She frowned, and asked, “Was that in doubt?”

 _That was a stupid question_. But it had already left her mouth, and she couldn't take it back.

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion,” he reminded, sharply. “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Of course she understood. And of course he would have considered fleeing as much as she had; he had been no less a prisoner than her. As an apostate — and as an elf — his position was no less precarious in the human world as her own.

Tephra's memory shot back to the moment she'd first seen him, before the rift.

She'd been on the edge unconsciousness, struggling for breath as the water crowded out the air in her lungs. Laughter, sharp and vicious around her. And then, a shout — _“What is the meaning of this?!”_ — and then the water stopped. The hood was yanked off of her, and she could breathe again.

He had been the first thing her eyes focused on. Standing in the entrance of the cell, and as furious as she was.

At the time, she had cursed his inaction, cursed him for leaving her there, but really, what could he have done? And now she knew that he had been just as helpless as her to do anything about the situation. Had he acted against the templars, he would have surely forfeited his life for it. He was just as much a prisoner, even if he hadn't been restrained in irons.

And he'd saved her life, according to Varric, after the Conclave. Kept the mark from killing her as she slept. He had no reason to — they'd branded her a mass murderer, as the reason for the Breach's existence. Yet, still he saved her.

Tephra felt a sudden affinity for him. His situation was not all that different from hers, and if she was no longer a prisoner, then she would make damn sure that neither was he.

What good was this Herald bullshit, if she didn't have some say in the matters at hand?

“You came here to help, Solas,” she said, finally. “I won't let them use that against you.”

He regarded her with a curious frown, eyebrows knitting together. “How would you stop them?”

Defiance swelled in her, as she asserted, “However I had to.”

Her certainty startled him, as if he hadn't expected such a thing from her.

It was a curious thing, his surprise, but perhaps that was because he was an apostate; they tended to live solitary lives, very rarely grouping together with each other, let alone anyone else. It was likely that he had no one, not even a distant clan to return to. And she knew that particular feeling as well — having to survive entirely on one's own merit, without having someone to watch your back.

It made her feel suddenly quite protective of his well-being.

“Thank you,” he said, with sincerity. He continued to regard her a moment, before shifting gears, “For now, let us hope that either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach.”

A lull fell over the mage, as he lapsed into his own thoughts.

She idled, as questions stirred and bundled inside of her, pressing against her ribs with urgency to be asked. But she hardly knew him, and these questions were so deeply important to her — personal, even. But she didn't want to let this chance slip past her. For all she knew, this dreamer-mage could be claimed by the war at any time or by some other end, before the opportunity ever arose again. She had pursued the answers for so long, and now here was someone standing before her who could possibly give her the truth. For better or worse.

Her hand went to her sternum, pressing a touch to the shell that rested there. She tried to not bounce on her toes with nervous excitement, as she asked, “If you wouldn't mind a few more questions about what you do—”

His eyes focused back on her sharply, and he frowned, “What I do?”

“Dreaming,” Tephra replied, a bit hastily. She didn't mean to infer anything, and he clearly was used to such things. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her face, and averted her gaze as she clarified, “Your travels and experiences in the Fade.”

When she met his gaze again, Solas was smiling. “Of course,” he said. “What would you ask of them?”

“There is so little known on the subject, but—” She stalled, at a loss of where to begin.

It was all tied up in complicated, personal experiences. She wanted to distance the questions from it, to keep in impersonal. To keep it purely academic. She couldn't stop the faltering sigh that left her as her mind worked out how to best frame the question. She settled on prefacing with a point of reference, which was really the only thing she'd ever been told by her Keeper on the subject of the Beyond. Despite her uncertainty, she was practically vibrating with interest, almost smiling as she began, “The Dalish believe—”

“Ah,” he interjected suddenly, with a flat, dismissive tone. Whatever amiable warmth he'd had was gone and replaced with cold disdain. “Of course. Forgive me if I stop you there, but I am already quite familiar with what the Dalish _believe_.”

His abrupt shift in mood caught her off guard, and shut her down effectively.

She hated the way her face opened in surprise _—_ hated how she was unable to quell the look of uncertainty that crossed it in an almost exaggeratedly slow manner.

What had she expected, truly? He'd already made his feelings known of the Dalish before, even if she'd skirted his verbal pitfall to hook her into an argument. There had been enough in his tone for her to surmise his distaste of her people.

Why did she think anything would be different now, after having fought side-by-side?

 _Because you are alone in a camp full of people who wanted you dead, and now they want to parade you around like a banner for their cause. Because you know no one here, not truly, and you are alone. Because you are being weak._ The thoughts burned across her mind, sharp like a reprimand.

She pushed away her surprise, and let indifference claim her face.

“Right, then,” she said, her tone abruptly formal. “Forgive me for mistaking you as the one person here who might understand how ridiculously out of place I feel. Dareth shiral.”

“Tas ma,” he replied, automatically.

It was clear that he had expected her to continue this verbal altercation, but her swift retreat had thrown him off. He blinked rapidly, jaw working visibly as his teeth ground together, before he asked, rather sharply, “Have I offended—”

“Not at all,” she interjected, letting her tone go falsely cheery as she cut him off. She turned on her heel and started for the apothecary's cabin, uninterested in his falsely polite backpedaling. “It's just that I have Herald stuff to attend to. I guess I'll manage in my own inferior way, being Dalish and all.”

She did not wait for him to collect himself to produce a retort, and quickly fled into the apothecary's cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named the scared-y elf because she deserved a name. And I really wanted to highlight how fucking weird it would be to be catapulted into the role of a savior-figure, so there's gonna be a lot of that as Tephra struggles to come to terms with it. The dialogue/scene at the end diverted a bit into AU, and will continue to do so as the story progresses as I have a lot of ideas and things I want to explore. The core plot will remain intact, at least so far as the end of Inquisition goes. Anyhoo, hope this is enjoyable so far because I am enjoying the writing of it.
> 
> Elven translations:  
> Dareth shiral. — Farewell; safe journey.  
> Tas ma. — You as well.


	5. Deeper Trenches

Why does tragedy exist?  
Because you are full of rage.  
Why are you full of rage?  
Because you are full of grief.  
_—Anne Carson, Grief Lessons_  
  
  


Her name sat uncomfortably in his mouth.

_Teff-ruh._

Her name, like many of the modern elves he'd met, was a modern construct and not rooted in the Elven language at all. It carried no meaning that he could discern, and the phonetics of it were at once sharp and foreign.

Perhaps he was over-thinking it, but she'd drawn him out of himself long enough for him to become _provoked_. Now every little thing about her seemed to get a rise out of him. And perhaps that had been his fault, too — letting himself be so easily drawn into an argument.

In truth, he was still quite resentful about his experiences with the Dalish. Many had just left him feeling alienated and cold, left him feeling like an outsider, as something _other_ — while others had gone so far as to nearly killing him in their anger, in their need to cling to their half-truths and outright lies. Lashing out at her for their misdeeds, however, had been unbecoming of him. She had yet to conduct herself as they had, which he had to admit, was surprising.

At first glance, she had been precisely what he'd expected of a Dalish woman. Guarded and suspicious. Diminished. Not even a mage. She was among the poor shadows of his people who didn't even carry the seed of magic anymore, and with a face desecrated by vallaslin. She even wore _boots_. His People had always left something of the foot bare, so as to not break the connection between spirit and earth. Back when everything was infused with magic and connected to each other through its song, it was unthinkable to break such a vital source of contact with the Fade.

Without the ears, she may as well have been human.

It would have been easy to submit to the guilt in knowing that she — as all the rest — existed as such because of him. That truth was his weight to carry, no matter how heavy it was. Regardless — he could not look back. The only path was forward.

The time for first impressions had passed, and she had forced him to narrow his focus, to _see_ her. And he found that she was continually not what he had expected at all. Though he was hesitant to make even _that_ assertion, given how well his initial expectations panned out thus far. It threw him off-balance, and forced him to look closer, forced him to consider her perspective of the events at hand.

It would have been so much easier, in the world before this one.

He had a difficult time reading into the emotions of modern elves, or any of the other modern races, really. But it stung more deeply with the elves; in a way, he was as disconnected from them as they were to the Fade. With the Veil, they were not only closed off to their innate connection to magic, but to each other as well. In the time before, when all of the world sang the same, one did not simply just observe the emotions of their brethren, so much as _feel_ them as well. And the language of faces and bodies were so very _limited_. It required much more work than he was used to, and could be taxing at times. Even after a year of being awake in this world, he still struggled with it.

For all of his intention of forging amity with his Anchor's host, of earning her trust and cooperation — he was certainly off to a bad start.

She remained, largely, an unknown. Until his agents could pry something loose of her origin, there was precious little to go on. And he very much doubted that she would be willing to divulge to him, after their heated exchanges. If she had been wary of him before, he had certainly not helped the situation by offending her.

But what little he had gleaned of her, was anomalous at best.

She was wary to a fault, but it was neither rooted in the suspicion nor the antipathy of the Dalish he'd encountered before. There was an uncanny stillness about her, and little seemed to escape her sharp, owlish gaze. That sort of focus belonged to the wilderness — to predator and prey alike. Of knowing when to strike, and when to flee. It was far beyond the limits of even the most talented of hunters.

Her discomfort with the title that had been hoisted upon her was an interesting thing, as well as how she’d at the notion of heroism. Again, very unlike the Dalish he'd encountered. Brash young things — so eager to prove themselves in acts of courage and valor — while the older generations were content to remain isolated among their own and have little to do with the outside world.

This was something more careful, more practical. This was someone with an acute awareness of their own personal freedoms being whittled away by the trap of duty.

She'd denounced the titles with fervor, and yet, she'd declared — with equal intensity — her intent to protect him from the Chantry and from the forces around her seeking to use the Anchor. The resolve in her tone and body language had surprised him. For a brief moment, she had dropped her guard long enough to extend herself toward him as a protector, as a guardian — the newly-appointed, if reluctant, figurehead of the Andrastian religion offering a hand of kinship to an apostate elf.

It was a Dalish elf offering a hand of kinship to the Dread Wolf himself.

The irony was not lost on him. And yet, it stirred something in him, which nested in his ribs, beating out an odd pulse in time with the beat of his heart.

And then, of course, he’d ruined it when he had once again insulted her. She'd withdrawn back into herself, and he was demoted back to being no better to her than all the rest — just another person for her to be on guard against.

He hadn't even learned what she had meant to ask him, regarding the Fade, as he'd cut her off at the mention of the Dalish. The not-knowing burned at him. It had clearly been of some importance to her, and he had to admit, he was curious.

When the Herald finally exited the apothecary's cabin, she did not meet his gaze. She moved quickly, clearly intending to pass by without speaking to him again. Solas stepped forward to intercept her path, causing her to stop in her tracks and regard him with a tight expression.

An apology would have been the wisest course, but stubbornness still nested in him, making a home out of his pride. Instead, he diverted, “Your hand — the mark.”

She blinked quickly, and frowned. Clearly, she had expected a continuation of the prior argument. Her hand flexed at her side. “What of it?”

He held out his hand, and prompted, “May I?”

Her frown deepened as regarded him warily, before she relented and permitted him access to her hand. The back of it was a violent shade of purple, mottled with blue and edged with a sickly shade of yellow. The scabbing was in its last phase, as the abrasions had long-since closed. No signs of infection, even if her skin was startlingly warm against his.

“Try as you may, it will remain,” he remarked, not unkindly.

“Clearly,” she replied, in a flat tone.

It took only the smallest tug on his part, and the Anchor surfaced. A gleaming seam nestled between her metacarpals. It pulsed alongside her heartbeat, just out of sync. Like a gear set wrong and trying to snap into place. It couldn't though; it wasn't meant for her. But it was stable, for the time being. Its advance had been considerably slowed, which bought time. Time to stop the magister, and time enough to regain his strength to reclaim it. And time still, for her to live.

“Well?”

“It remains stable,” he replied, as he withdrew his hand. He flexed it idly, as the warmth of her touch lingered.

She regarded him coolly, and asked, “Was that all?”

His curiosity got the better of him. “Your question before—”

“It was nothing,” she replied quickly, dismissing him. “Forget that I asked.”

When she moved to take her leave, an impulsiveness seized him as he stepped again in her path and said, “It pains me to have discouraged your curiosity.”

She startled at his sudden movement, and frowned at his raised hands.

Solas withdrew them sheepishly, fidgeting with his fingers. It was an old, nervous habit, one he’d long since banished in the days of his youth. Yet, she seemed capable of bringing out of him naturally, much to his consternation. He continued, “While the masses are content to follow the status quo regarding many matters — the Fade especially — it is rare to find someone who falls out of that line. Who shares an anachronistic viewpoint, or at the very least, a willingness to understand it.”

She quirked an eyebrow, “Is that supposed to be an apology?”

His jaw tensed and loosened, before he replied, “More of a cease-fire.”

“Ah,” she parroted his previous tone, which he'd used when she had mentioned the Dalish. “Forgive me if I stop you there, but I am already quite familiar with false apologies.”

Even in his annoyance, Solas could appreciate her turning his own words against himself. His pulse quickened and he found that he was once again drawn out of himself — drawn out of the carefully constructed distance he'd placed between his self and this nightmare world of tranquil. There was something about her that forced him out into the moment, forced him to be _present_ , forced him to acknowledge her as more than a pawn to be moved and manipulated into place. She shouldn't have been this sharp of wit, this outraged, this damnably _stubborn_.

She was only a shadow, after all. Where then, had she gained such gravity?

His jaw worked soundlessly, chewing over his agitation. He drew a steadying breath, and started, “Falon—”

“Is it falon now? Have you reconsidered your stance on the Dalish?”

Her dark eyes held his in a sharp grasp. Too sharp. She did not give him time to reconsider his approach, as she said, “We may not be what we were before, when we were all one people, but there is still good in us. Strength, and honor, and compassion."

"Yes, I have seen much of Dalish compassion, what with charming practices such as — what was it called? Ah, yes — Fenharel's Teeth," he countered, sharply. What little patience was left to him had fled. "Or perhaps how they compassionately forsake those of their city brethren, denouncing them as no better than seth'lin, as flat-ears."

She had the grace to blush.

“Let us not forget the bandit clans, either,” he continued, voice heated to a searing edge. “Raiders with no interest beyond what they can take from those weaker than themselves, and what creative brutalities they can inflict upon the unwary.”

Something seized up in her face at that, and he realized that he had not simply touched on a nerve, but on something far older and far more painful to her. For a brief moment, it was written clearly across her face, before it was gone again behind her mask of indifference.

“They kill more than just humans and outsiders. They kill us, too,” she replied, heatedly. “And I have killed my share of them.”

Something steadied in her, gained momentum, as she continued, “But what does that gain us? Waging war on one another never ends in our freedom. There is only more blood — and deeper trenches. And soon a day when none of us are left.”

Once again, he found himself startled by the wisdom in her words.

How could something so mortal carry such conviction?

She continued to regard him with those eyes — too dark, too knowing — before she asked once more, “Was that all?”

Not by leagues. Not by centuries.

He had made a crucial mistake in setting his expectations for her so low, he knew that much now. But she'd shattered even his most optimistic expectations in the span of two short, heated arguments. There was not only intelligence lurking in her, but clarity as well as conviction. And now that he'd so thoroughly offended her, it was unlikely that she'd continue to share her increasingly interesting perspective with him.

Without a further word, she left him there and continued on her path.

Questions tangled in his gut restlessly as he watched her go.

 

———

 

Tephra did not wait for the apostate to collect himself.

She moved quickly through the town, putting as much space between herself and his scathing criticism as she could without actually leaving.

It wasn't that his criticisms weren't without merit — as though she hadn't held many of those opinions herself, even — it was the grand, sweeping nature of his condemnation. As though there was nothing good at all of the Dalish, which was an insult to her people, to her parents, to _him_. She couldn't begin to understand how Solas could be so dismissive of the Dalish for the actions of a few, and his arrogance gave her precious little patience to try.

Her pulse pounded in her ears with anger. None in her clan were anything like what Solas spoke of. Even in their wanderings, the other clans had not shown that kind of hatred to outsiders. Suspicion, yes, but not outright hostility. They simply sought to be left in peace. Surely it had to be happenstance that her experiences and his varied so greatly.

There were clans comprised of bandits and criminals, but they fewer and farther between. The thought that her kind — the peaceful sort — were in the minority was too difficult to swallow.

And truly, what did it matter if the elf dismissed her? Was it really so different than the ones before? Was she really so foolish as to expect camaraderie from him over a commonality so banal as shared race?

_Don't be an idiot. That will get you killed far quicker than loneliness._

The urge to simply scale the gates and seek shelter in a quiet place, to be alone, pressed in on her, until she spotted the dwarf.

Varric was crouched near a bonfire, staring a hole into it as he contemplated something heavy enough to warrant such a grim look.

Briefly, she remember the strange red crystals growing at the ruins of the temple and the fear in his voice. _Red lyrium_. She would have to ask him about it, some time.

As she neared, the dwarf looked up from campfire and his expression brightened.

 _At least someone is happy to see me_ , she thought.

“So, now that Cassandra's out of earshot, are you holding up all right?” He rose from his crouch and turned to face her, as he said, “I mean, you go from the most wanted criminal in Thedas, to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

There was something close to awe in the way he looked at her, as if he had expected her to have cracked under the pressure by now.

"I'm not sure I am," she replied, surprised by her own sudden candor. "Part of me suspects I'm still dreaming."

“If only it were just a fucking nightmare,” Varric said, grimly. But the humor returned, as he joked, “So this whole Herald thing, eh? The Herald of Andraste, Breaker of Noses.”

Tephra bit back a sudden smile, lips curling in to conceal it poorly.

“This one's already been, by the way,” Varric teased, tapping his own misaligned nose. “No need to bless me.”

Tephra could have laughed at that. She'd wanted to laugh, sought out the elf for precisely that; why was it so hard to now?

“But seriously, kid. You're not alone in this,” he said, gently. His sudden concern was genuine, and freely given. “If you need somebody to talk to, all you gotta do is look down.”

His friendly concern nudged a stone loose in her well-built walls, and she turned her face to conceal whatever small reaction passed over her features — the tightening of brows and forehead, the sudden hard line of her mouth.

Varric gave a sigh, and said, “Oh, Snowflake. You're gonna be fine.”

She nodded hastily, and only looked back at him when her face had smoothed out again. “Thank you.”

He gave a nod, brow furrowed. Sensing the need to change the subject, Varric cleared his throat and said, “For days now we've been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can't believe anyone was in there and lived.”

Tephra gave him a curious frown, “Why stay if Cassandra released you?”

“I like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this?” The dwarf gave a slow shake of his head, “Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there's a hole in the sky. Even I can't walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

The truth of his statement settled heavily over her. Just as Solas had, Varric was choosing to stay. If even those who came unsure and unwilling to this task chose to stay, how could she justify leaving? She tried to ease the heaviness with a jest, “I'm still not sure I even believe all of this is really happening.”

“If this is all just the Maker winding us up, I hope there's a damn good punchline coming,” Varric replied. A bit of his humor slipped back, as he jested, “You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

It didn't last, however.

“Heroes are everywhere, I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. We're going to need a miracle.”

She flexed her marked hand, reflexively. _A miracle indeed_ , she thought. Even this cursed mark hadn't been enough to close it. What if there was truly nothing strong enough to undo the cataclysm in the sky? It was a troubling thought. Shifting gears, Tephra asked, “Do you know Solas very well?”

“Chuckles? Not really, no,” Varric replied. He gave a thoughtful frown, as he crossed his arms and said, “He sprang up out of nowhere when the sky tore open. Said he'd been not too far from here when it happened. Surrendered himself into the service of the Chantry, claiming he was a bit of an expert on the Fade.”

“Curious,” she remarked, turning the information over in her mind like a coin. She had sworn to protect this apostate; she would do well to know his intentions, whether they were purely altruistic or if he harbored an ulterior motive.

“That he is,” Varric agreed.

“It was nice speaking with you, Varric,” she said. She was certain she'd wasted enough time putting off returning to the chantry.

“Yes, of course. Go do your Herald stuff. Try to not lose your head about it,” the dwarf chuckled.

She didn't know what possessed her, but she pushed him by the shoulder in a friendly jab.

He laughed and waved her off, “Go on, then, kid.”

When she returned to the chantry, she found Cassandra waiting for her at the doors. She turned and headed in, clearing expecting Tephra to follow her.

As they made their way down the long stretch of the main hallway, the Seeker caught her flexing her hand. It was becoming something of a habit.

“Does it trouble you?” Cassandra asked, with something close to concern in her tone.

“If it wasn't enough to close the Breach, what use is it?” She could not keep the anger from her voice.

The Seeker, however, was calm — _assuring_ , even — as she replied, “You did everything we asked of you.”

“And it still wasn't enough,” Tephra bit back.

She was the one carrying the damn mark, and probably still dying from it in a way — she was certainly allowed some anger in that, wasn't she? What was the point of it, if it couldn't fix this mess? Was it some cruel, cosmic joke to give them false hope?

“What's important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach,” Cassandra replied, unfazed by her outburst. “You've given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

“Couldn't that kind of power just make things worse?” Tephra asked, uneasy by the prospect. She remembered how it had felt simply closing the rift that fed the Breach — how it had felt like her entire being had been invaded and was being split apart. The idea of being a vessel for that kind of power was not a comforting notion.

To her surprise, Cassandra laughed. Then, she said, “And people call _me_ a pessimist.”

The sudden ease in the Seeker's body language threw Tephra off.

Gone was the coiled anger, the accusatory looks. The woman was still intense, to say the least, but steadier, assured, and confident — in _her_. Deferential, even.

The sudden change left Tephra feeling unsteady and unsure of herself. What had changed, really, to warrant this behavior? What had she done to earn this woman's respect? Aside from nearly dying, she hadn't really done anything but let the mark work through her.

“Come,” the Seeker bade. “There are others you should to meet.”

 

———

 

By the time she was released again from the chantry, it was well after dark.

She had been invited to join the advisers for dinner at the tavern, but honestly, all she wanted to do was to go back to the cabin assigned to her and sleep. They would be departing for the Hinterlands at first light, to establish some semblance of peace to the region and to recruit people to the cause, as well as seeking out a chantry woman at the Crossroads who'd asked to speak with her. Getting as much rest as she could would have been the wisest choice, but she relented and followed the Seeker to the The Singing Maiden.

It was a noisy establishment. Not terribly large, either.

Most of the customers crowded one half of it, closest to the fireplace, where a bard was plucking away at a bowed instrument and singing of an empress of fire. Soldiers crowded several of those tables, while refugees and townspeople occupied the rest.

The other half of the tavern had been cleared for them. Josephine had suggested clearing the entire tavern for the duration of their meal, but Tephra had thought it rude and refused. Two of the tables had been shoved together to make for adequate dining space, though it seemed an excessive waste of space to her. Trays of food lined the length, though it was nothing terribly extravagant — simple, hearty fare. Fresh baked rolls, a large pot of mutton stew, baked potatoes and an assortment of roasted root vegetables, grilled freshwater fish, and roasted apples.

Varric and Solas had arrived early, and were well into their meals.

She sat next to the dwarf, who greeted her with a warm smile and pushed a mug of ale at her. She eyed the food, briefly. Her hunger had long since gone from a raw knot to a heady emptiness, but the scent of the food brought it rushing back.

She turned her focus away from it and scanned the tavern, taking in the sight of the people gathered there. Mostly humans, with a handful of dwarves and elves scattered among them. The refugees were haggard-looking, having come from the outlying towns around the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Most of those towns had been wiped off the map. These were the farmers and hunters who'd had the sheer luck of living far enough away from the blast to survive. One table was occupied almost entirely by children — _orphans_. She could tell by the quiet way grief lay across their faces. Some were still and withdrawn, while others were restless and irritable. Two chantry women tended to them to make sure they were adequately fed.

“Herald?”

Tephra's attention snapped back to the table. The Commander, Cullen Rutherford, was standing across from her with a soldier at his side. The white armband he wore distinguished him as a medic. Cullen gestured at the soldier, “I believe you asked to meet the medic who saved your life at the Breach, did you not?”

“Yes,” she replied, automatically. She'd nearly forgotten that she had, after meeting with the advisers. The apothecary had mentioned to her that it had been a medic who'd brought her back from the brink of death, but he had not known the man's name and suggested asking the Commander for his identity.

The medic must have just come in from training, as he was still in full gear. With a quick movement, he pulled off his helmet and tucked it under an arm. Mid-twenties at most, with dark hair and dark eyes. Handsome, and human. He gave a crooked smile, and inclined his head, “Alleras Wakefield, at your service, Herald.”

“Please, don't,” she groaned, as she stood. She'd had enough of the heralds and graces today.

The medic laughed, “Not very fond of that title, are you?”

His humor was disarming. Tephra gave an amused huff, “Gods, no. Please take it. I'll gladly give it up.”

Alleras sucked in air between his teeth, giving a mock grimace, “No thanks, Herald. I'm quite fine with “medic”. Besides, that doesn't look like it comes off all that easily.”

He was eyeing the mark on her hand. In the dim, warm light of the tavern, the seam shined a deep shade of emerald. She fought the urge to flex her hand. She grimaced, “Unfortunately, no.”

“Looks like you tried well enough,” he observed.

She ignored the others taking covert glances at her bruised hand. She hoped it shamed them, as much as her split lip and the bruises on her neck from the templars torturing her had. None of that was the medic's fault, though, and she kept her tone neutral as she said, “I wanted to thank you. I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm standing here now is because of you.”

The medic waved her off. “It's my job. You were a soldier on my field. It's what I do. Besides,” Alleras gestured at Solas, seated across the table from her. “That one there did all the messy work fixing the internal damage. I just un-collapsed your lung and got you breathing again.”

Tephra had been pointedly avoiding Solas's gaze, but now she had an obligation to meet it. She found that it was calm and collected, and held none of the antagonism from their earlier arguments. “It seems I owe you twice over, now,” she mused.

“Not at all,” he replied coolly, before diverting his attention back to his plate. “I was merely doing my job, as well.”

“By your leave, Herald. I believe there is at least three mugs of ale waiting for me,” the medic said, rather cheerfully.

Tephra gave a nod, and released him. It made her uncomfortable, having to do so at all. She reclaimed her seat, feeling awkward and out of place. At least she'd gotten that out of the way; it would have bothered her until she'd tracked the medic down and forced her thanks upon him.

There was a lull as the advisers settled at the table and prepared their dinners. Cassandra sat at her right, and the other two women flanked further right, leaving the poor Commander to sit by himself across from them.

She’d hardly just sat down, when a handful of older women approached. Between them, they each carried a bowl filled with what looked like peeled, boiled eggs. The smell preceded them.

“Pardon, your grace,” one of the women said, bowing far too low for her age.

_For fuck's sake._

“Please don't bow,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

“I'll just—” Cullen stepped around the tables to accept the offerings. He set the bowls among the platters.

“We only meant to wish you good health, Herald,” another woman said, as they straightened.

Tephra gave a stiff nod. Would this ridiculous behavior never end?

Blessedly, Cassandra stood and spoke over the din of the tavern and declared, “If there are to be any more offerings, please direct them to the tavern keeper. The Herald has had a long day, and does not need further interruption from her supper.”

She couldn't help but frown at the bowls heaped with strong-smelling eggs. They'd either gone bad, or were not-so-subtly poisoned. Both options seemed just as likely to her. Tephra turned to the Seeker, and asked, “Why all the eggs?”

Cullen spoke up, with an amused smile, “It's a Fereldan thing. Old wives tales and all that. They believe pickled eggs'll cure just about anything. Don't mind them, though. They're just trying to help, in their own way.”

She was still thrown by the change in the demeanor of these people. Could they really be so fickle?

Tephra caught her gaze wandering to the grilled fish, and gave a shake of her head as she turned back to the conversation between the advisers. She continued to ignore the food.

“We can depart for the Hinterlands first thing,” the Seeker was saying. “We are short on mounts for the soldiers, but there are enough between the four of us.”

Tephra cocked an eyebrow, “Four?”

“You and I,” Cassandra replied. With some measure of agitation, she added, “Varric, and Solas. A smaller traveling party will attract less attention on the roads.”

That was true enough.

“She's still injured,” Leliana noted, as she she sliced roasted vegetables on her plate.

“Marginally,” Tephra insisted. She doubted she fooled any of them, but the thought of staying another day in this town with people tripping over themselves for her favor made her skin crawl. “By the time we reach the Hinterlands, I'll be fine.”

“Reports speak of near chaos in much of the area, with bandits taking up residence on the outskirts of the fighting. They lay in wait for fleeing refugees,” Josephine said, her face set grimly. She did not need to elaborate on what the bandits did with the refugees after they were caught.

The Montilyet woman was a sight — dressed largely in gold and blue that flattered her dark skin. She had never met an Antivan before. The woman's accent was strange and lyrical, and she found it enjoyable to listen to.

“We'll deal with the defectors and the rebels first, then we can see to rousting the bandits,” Cassandra replied. “It will take some time, but we have that now.”

“Getting to the Crossroads and securing it should be your foremost concern,” the Commander advised, before taking a swig of ale.

The Seeker paused for a moment, fork hovering over her plate as she wrestled with a thought. She cleared her throat and speared a portion of fish, before changing the subject. “Despite Leliana's efforts, we still know next to nothing of you, of your history.” The Seeker was trying to be conversational, but it still came off as feeling like an interrogation. An awkward interrogation. She turned her gaze to Tephra, as she asked, “Where do you hail from?”

Tephra hesitated to answer. This information was unnecessary to their operations, or their use of her. What could they gain from knowing it? She frowned, and begrudgingly replied, “The Free Marches.”

All of their focus was on her now. At least the apostate was attempting to feign disinterest.

Her jaw clenched, before she relented, “Of Clan Lavellan.”

Josephine perked up, as she asked, “The Dalish are nomadic, are they not? Where last did your clan settle?”

“You'll forgive me if I choose to not divulge that information, given how we are generally treated by your people,” she replied, a bit tersely.

“Fair enough,” Josephine conceded, graciously. “Do forgive our intrusion.”

The Commander reached across the table to spear a roasted potato.

Tephra watched the action a bit too closely.

Cassandra cleared her throat, before asking, “When did you last eat?”

Anger coiled in her stomach, crowding out the hunger. “How long has it been since your people took me?”

The Seeker regarded her with a tight expression. After a moment, she moved a platter of roasted fish and set it before Tephra, and insisted, “You should eat.”

She ignored it, and continued to hold the woman's stern gaze. The Seeker broke the connection first and averted her gaze, and made a frustrated noise.

This particular aspect of her rebellion was unsustainable — childish, even — but for the time being she indulged it. It was worth their discomfort. Though when Varric nudged a bread roll in her general direction, she nearly caved in from guilt.

“Would you pass the apples, Varric?”

Now it seemed the Seeker sought to turn her rebellion against her. Tephra's mouth was set in a hard line as the tray was passed in front of her; the warm scent of cinnamon and spices was near maddening.

Worse, even, was that the apostate watched with _amusement_. He said nothing, but took a rather large bite of the mutton stew.

 _Fenedhis_.

“Also, the rolls, if you would.”

“Anything, for Nevarran royalty.”

That caught Tephra's attention. She turned a quizzical look to Cassandra, as the woman set down the plate of bread. “Royalty?”

She wasn't entirely clear on the intricacies of human politics, but royalty was generally a big deal as far as she knew.

Cassandra shot Varric a dark look, jaw clenching as she replied, “A distant blood relation. Nearly half of Nevarra could claim as much. Not quite the clout as a _merchant prince_.”

Tephra turned in her seat and turned her surprised look on the dwarf. He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. She then gave an arch look to Solas, and said, “And let me guess — you're secretly Shartan.”

His smile twitched, as he asked, “Why Shartan?”

“Well, obviously I'm Andraste, if we're playing this game,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.

Cassandra made a sound of disgust, and Leliana gave a sharp look of disapproval as she advised, “You should not make light of our faith, Herald. Not here, where you could be overheard by the very people whose support we need.”

“Apologies,” Tephra replied. She had not meant to mock their religion, not really — but this whole situation _was_ ridiculous.

Cassandra fixed her with a serious look, as she said, “Some would say the Maker chose you. That you are an agent of his will.”

“That's ridiculous,” Tephra replied, frowning. “I chose to accept the mission that was given to me, to go to the Conclave. What happened, happened. If someone else had been sent in my place, that poor fool would be here now, just the same.”

“I'm not so sure,” the Seeker insisted, stubbornly.

“If anything, it was my own terrible timing,” she said, averting her gaze to stare a hole through the wall. “You mean to parade me about as your Herald to win people to your cause, to make myth of me when it was very likely just a mistake. Some terrible, cosmic joke.”

“Do you not believe in the Maker? What of your own gods?”

The Seeker was relentless on the subject. Tephra's marked hand fisted on her knee, beneath the table. “I have no need of the gods,” she replied, flatly. “People suffer and die every day, and what do they do? They are sleeping, or dead, or never were. Or perhaps they just don't care that the world has become what it is.”

That silenced the Seeker for a moment, at least. Staring at the wall made it impossible to not see Solas in her periphery, staring a hole through her.

Thankfully, the Spymaster spoke up to divert her attention. “The faith of the people can be put to good use. Directed to do good work. We can build a better future.”

“Do what you must,” Tephra replied, sharply. “As will I. But don't mistake my compliance with pleasure. I take no joy in any of this.”

“Perhaps not,” Cassandra conceded. “But one day, you may find pride in it.”

Varric piped up at her side, “Not fond of deification, Snowflake?”

He was joking with her, attempting to break the tension, but it did nothing to ease her discomfort.

“I don't think I'd make a very good god,” she replied. “I'd either care too much or too little. I imagine I'd be just as useless as the rest.”

“But say you were,” the dwarf said. “What would you do for them?”

Clearly he was posing the question as a humorous game of what-if, and expected her to respond in kind, but she couldn't help but take it seriously. “Keep them safe and leave them be,” she replied, simply.

Varric gave a bark of laughter and waved his hand dismissively, “Ah, you're no fun.”

Breaking his silence, the apostate spoke up and said, “Do go on.”

She regarded Solas with a tight frown, silently cursing him for continuing this stupid conversation. “I would want to keep them safe, from each other particularly. From atrocity. From the unnatural. But then also, to let them be to live their lives as they would. To not use them as pawns for some greater design. To give them freedom to live and die as they chose to,” she elaborated.

She had all of their attention again, particularly Solas's. Tephra found herself almost startled by the intensity of his attention; it was as though he was just now, in that moment, seeing her clearly. Her frown deepened, before she averted her gaze and said, “But then, there it is — isn't it?”

“There is what?” Cullen asked, as he leaned forward with his elbows on the table, fingers laced together.

“The trap,” she replied, as if it had been obvious all along. “How could I do both without violating the other? To keep them safe, intervention would be necessary. To let them be would be to let them be free to face whatever horrors the world throws at them, or what they may inflict upon each other. Terrible things happen when people think they're doing the right thing, especially if there's some god involved.”

But sometimes, it wasn't gods or grand schemes. Sometimes it was just one person, trying to keep another safe, and failing. Her hand touched briefly at her sternum, feeling for the shell. “That's just the way it is, though — isn't it?” She swallowed at the hard lump in her throat, and pushed the memories away, as she said, “You try to keep them safe, to make things right, to make what small good you can in the world, and it all just blows up in your face.”

“Sometimes literally,” Varric deadpanned.

Tephra was acutely aware of their scrutiny. It was the most she had said on any subject thus far. Perhaps more than she'd said in the entirety between now and the moment she'd woken in the prison.

Cassandra and Cullen were both giving her measured looks, as if they were adjusting their previous notions of her. Varric looked amused, as if he was simply pleased he'd managed to make her speak at such length. A smile played at Josephine's mouth, and Leliana simply regarded her with a calculated frown. And Solas — he was looking at her with one eyebrow quirked, as though his curiosity had been piqued, but otherwise his expression was unfathomable. _Intense_ , but unfathomable.

Tephra felt the heat rise in her face from their undivided attention. She averted her gaze and added, “As I said — I wouldn't make a very good god.”

“But perhaps you will make a competent Herald,” Cassandra mused. The woman looked almost _pleased_.

Tephra bit her tongue. She very much wanted to down the mug of ale that Varric had pushed at her, but refrained.

“The “Herald of Andraste”,” the dwarf parroted. He turned a playful grin on her, as he asked, “Do you wonder what they will write about you, when this is all over?”

He was far too cheery about all of this, yet his humor was lifeline for her. The urge to deck him and to hug him came in equal measures. She huffed, “What does it matter? They'll just cut off my ears and change me into something that fits their narrative, like they did with her.”

Cassandra gaped at her, “Andraste was _human_. Are you suggesting that she was an elf?”

“So they say. So it is,” Tephra replied. “Shartan was an elf, and they cut off his ears. If she was, who now would know the truth? What is truth, when the dead cannot speak for themselves? When history can be so easily rewritten to reflect the narrative of those in power?”

She could have laughed at their collective shock. Was it really so mad to suggest an alternative perception on their supposedly human martyr? Perhaps mentioning the common heresy of Shartan being Andraste's lover was not the wisest to add in addendum, though the thought of doing so was delightful to entertain.

Once again, she met Solas's piercing stare. Not quite a frown, not quite anything else. She was good at reading people, but he was at times entirely unreadable.

Leliana broke the silence that had settled over the table, as she asked, “Do you know much of Andraste?”

Tephra shifted her gaze back to the advisers, “I don't have to believe in your religion to find her interesting.” She could not stop the small smile that flitted across her face, “She loved a god and brought the world to its knees. She's set the bar rather high, hasn't she?”

“You're off to good start,” Varric quipped.

Cassandra spoke up at her side, “Andraste fought for the freedom of her people. She chose her path wisely, just as you must choose—”

The smile soured on her face, as she she turned to the Seeker, “My... _what?_ ”

“It will be your choice—”

“I have no choice about any of this!” Tephra shot back, angrily. Her voice cut over the din, and the tavern quieted briefly and startled patrons looked her way.

Varric laid his hand over her forearm, and it stilled her anger long enough for the people of the tavern to resume their conversations. The bard was singing about enchanters now.

Still seething, she said, “From the start of this, I've had no choice. It was taken from me the moment this mark was put on me. And I don't recall giving my consent. I didn't have any choice about being imprisoned. Or being made to close those rifts without any idea of how to do it the first place, and on threat of death if I failed.”

None of them attempted to refute her, so she continued, “Now you want to call me Herald and parade me about to win support for your cause because of this mark — because of what I can do with it. Spin it however you like to the masses, but don't pretend to me that I'm anything more than a means to an end. If leaving didn't mean the end of the world and everything in it, I would have been gone at the first chance your people gave me.”

Tephra stood quickly; a wave of dizziness hit her, and she swayed where she stood. Varric's grasp on her forearm steadied her, then retreated as he let go of her. She was done with this conversation; she was done with people in general for the night. More than anything, she needed a moment to herself, to be alone.

“Excuse me,” she said, tersely, as she pushed her chair in.

The mix of their expressions meant nothing to her. She was too fatigued to argue or to be talked down to or otherwise lectured about her responsibility and duty. She ducked off into the crowd, hastily navigating her way to the nearest exit.

The crowds at least made the effort to part a path for her, and she'd almost reached the door when she heard something over the noise of the tavern. It was a familiar sound, that pulled at her in a way she couldn't ignore.

She scanned the crowds for the source, and found it at the table with the orphaned children. One of the Chantry sisters held a little one in her arms as he wailed pitifully. He couldn't have been more than two summers old. His wailing only ceased briefly when he was wracked with coughs as a side effect of his hysterics.

The boy looked nothing like her brother, but she couldn't help but think of him. He'd been just as inconsolable that night, so long ago.

She paid no heed to the people parting around her as she made her way to the children. When Tephra reached the table, the woman gave her a startled look.

“Oh, forgive him, Herald, he's just—”

When Tephra raised her marked hand, the woman fell silent. She did not notice that the rest of the tavern had, as well.

It only made the boy's cries louder to her, more urgent, and deepened her need to cease them.

“There now, little bird,” she said quietly, and pressed her fingertip to his forehead. She traced a slow, steady line to the tip of his nose. Then again, forehead to nose. And again, until his cries quieted and settled into hiccups and then into contented silence.

_There, there, little bird._

 

———

 

Silence fell over the tavern as the Herald moved through the crowds and stood over the crying child.

Those who were sitting, stood to watch as she began to stroke the toddler in a curious manner. She spoke briefly, and too softly to be heard. She stroked a repetitive path from his forehead to the tip of his nose. The boy took a few shuddering breaths — half-sobs — before falling quiet.

More and more of the tavern occupants turned and craned to watch the gentle act, to see the infinitely gentle expression on the Herald's face.

It was the first time she'd truly shown herself to any of them, without the wariness and the anger which she wore like armor. And it was in that moment that it became clear that not only could she could fill the role that was presented to her as Herald — that not only could she simply be a rallying point, or a source of hope for the people — but that she could be a figure of compassion to unite them as well.

As if divining Solas's thoughts, the Seeker spoke up.

“They could love her,” she said, almost to herself, as if to reaffirm her decision of trusting the young elf with such an important role.

Not as if there was much of a choice about it, on either side.

“Maker,” the Commander said, almost breathlessly.

The other children had fallen silent, and crowded closer to the Herald. They were presenting their faces to be petted, with shy smiles. She complied, stroking each little face in turn and for the first time, she smiled. Whether it was the low warm lighting of the tavern framing her just so, or something that came naturally, but she made for a striking figure among them in that moment.

“She looks a bit like your people's deer god,” Varric remarked, in a low tone.

“The name you were looking for is Ghilan’nain,” Solas informed.

“ _Ghilly_ ,” the dwarf sighed, with amusement. “Would’ve been perfect.”

“She would likely hate it more than the current one you’ve bestowed upon her.”

“Which is why it would have been perfect!” Varric laughed. “If only I had thought of it first. I was a bit too distracted with the whole world-ending thing to be that clever, or remember the names of elven gods. Ah, well.”

Solas eyed the thick mess of her long white hair, and the slow, graceful movements of her hand as she petted the children's faces. “Halla are not simply deer, Master Dwarf,” he replied. “Though I will concede she behaves much like one.”

Varric gave a quiet laugh, “I don't think she'd take too kindly to being called doe-eyed and shy, though.”

He shot the dwarf a curious glance, “Have you met many halla on your journeys?”

“I can't say that I have,” Varric replied.

“You would remember if you had, and you would understand how ridiculous it is to compare them to deer,” Solas replied.

The moment of tenderness passed, as the elf became aware of the scene she'd caused. She straightened, and the frown returned to her face. She avoided the stares obstinately as she moved for the exit. No one blocked her path.

Solas could have smiled at her stubbornness. As the chatter of the patrons began to return, he continued, “Halla are not prey animals. They are not meek. They cannot be bridled. A halla would sooner impale their captor in the attempt, than to submit to another's will without consent.”

The dwarf looked skeptical. “And how is it you elves manage to ride them?”

He smiled then, as he stood from his chair, “One must humble themselves before the halla, and ask permission.”

Without a further word, he navigated through the crowds to follow after her. The patrons did not part so easily for him, and slowed him down. By the time he reached the street, she was already disappearing around a corner. When he turned the corner, he caught sight of her as she slipped between two bustling bodies, and was gone.

Solas stopped short, taken aback. _Where did she—?_

He scanned the crowds with a frown, but she did not reemerge. He cast forth a scanning spell, using his innate ability to sense magic around him to confirm a nagging suspicion that had followed him since he'd lost sight of her during the battle at one of the rifts before they'd reached the Breach.

And then he saw it — a slight shimmer in the air, like a trick of the light — moving swiftly off into the space between two cabins near the defensive wall that bordered the majority of the township. It was something akin to an outline, faint and wispy, shimmering just so, yet essentially invisible to anyone who didn't know how to look for it. He watched as she clambered up onto the roof of a cabin, and vaulted onto the next. And then, in one swift movement, she was up and over the defensive wall without a single look back.

As he stood there, processing what he'd just witnessed, one of his agents stopped on her way to the forge. She did not meet his gaze, as she pretended to fumble with her load and dropped a few of the tools she was carrying. As she crouched, she said, “Nothing new on the elf, sir.”

“No matter,” Solas replied. “She hails from the Free Marches. Her clan is Lavellan. I want a detailed report.”

The agent gathered up the tools swiftly from the snow, and hurried off into the crowds.

A moment later, the dwarf came puffing up beside him and asked, “Did you see where she went?”

“Over the gate, and beyond,” Solas replied. He suppressed a smile.

Varric heaved a sigh, and said, “Well, I _did_ encourage her to flee, unfortunately. Shall we go fetch her?”

“That would be wise,” he replied.


	6. Heavy Things

As I see it, you are living with something that you keep hidden deep inside.  
Something heavy. I felt it from the first time I met you. You have a strong gaze,  
as if you have made up your mind about something. To tell you the truth, I myself  
carry such things around inside. Heavy things. That is how I can see it in you.  
― _Haruki Murakami, 1Q84_

 

 

The snowy forest was quiet and still, but for the occasional flutter of birds among the evergreen trees. Each step she took further from Haven lessened the weight on her chest.

_I could go._

The notion weighed heavily in her mind as she slipped through the dark forest like a shadow among the trees.

None had seen her leave, and she still had time before they would even consider her missing. She could keep going — backtrack to the shore and follow it to Highever and take the ferry across the Waking Sea. She could go home to her clan.

Yet, doubt worried at her like a dog to a bone.

How long until the end of the world found them too?

She stared up at the slow-turning vortex of clouds that skirted the edges of the hole in the sky. She could feel it tugging at her, still.

What would become of the world, if the Breach was never sealed? If it tore open once again? Would demons spill forth and claim the land, killing everyone and everything in it?

It was an inconceivable horror, beyond imagining — it was a nightmare she couldn't outrun, no matter where she went.

Where would she even go? In time, the Breach would swallow everything. Of that much, she was sure.

Standing in a small clearing, Tephra turned a slow circle. The lights of Haven were dim beyond the black of the forest. Scant moonlight illuminated the trees and cast them into eerie silhouette. The night had brought the cold to deeper depths, but there was little wind and the coat she'd been given was warm enough.

At the very least, she could have a moment to herself.

No people, no chaos, no world-ending insanity — just her, and the wood-scented air in her lungs, and the blessed peace of solitude.

Above, the glow of the Breach was brighter than the moon.

Well, whatever small peace she could find with _that_ staring down at her.

Tephra heaved a sigh, and moved toward a large mossy tree. She scaled it easily, her fingers finding holds in the smallest grooves of the bark. She pulled herself up into the cradle of the tree, where the main branches forked up and outward in flush of resilient green. She settled in the curve, cushioned by moss and ferns.

She closed her eyes and let the chill of the air drift gently across her face. She took a slow breath, and thought of nothing and let the scent of the forest fill her lungs until there was something close to calm settling inside of her.

Inevitably, though, her thoughts turned back to her predicament.

They expected her to, what — save every one? Keep them safe? Her hand touched the small round shape under the collar of her coat. How was she supposed to do that when she couldn't even keep one person safe?

She tilted her head back against the tree, and sighed.

When she opened them again, she was greeted by a familiar sight.

_Crabapples._

Frosted with snow and flushed red with ripeness.

Laughter tore itself from her, before quickly turning to raw, ragged sobs.

Just as it had began nearly a month ago, here she was — curled up in a crabapple tree. Before the Breach, before the Conclave, before her long journey from her clan. They'd found her just like this — and then, everything changed.

She reached up and plucked the branch clean of crabapples, and piled them in her lap. She ate them with far more vigor than she'd intended. She didn't mind that they were more bitter than sweet. When she finished, she threw away the cores and curled up against one of the thick branches forking away from the cradle of the tree.

Tephra held her hand up, and stared at the mark — it seemed to shimmer more brightly in the light of the Breach. She had not felt the pain of it stir since their attempt to close the Breach, but she could still feel the slow pulse of its magic, beating out an echo alongside the rhythm of her heart.

How uncomplicated her life had been, before all of this.

She had been free to come and go from her clan as she willed, with little more than her bloodline binding her there. She would spend weeks away, with nothing but time to herself and to studying the world around her. And even though she'd never fully assimilated back among her people, it had become a home of sorts that always brought her back. Keeper Deshanna had been lenient with her restless wandering; the old woman had understood her nature, and how it had been shaped by her experiences — or at least, she tolerated it with great patience.

Tephra doubted that she would find the same sort of patience here with these people. Even now, she imagined soldiers gearing up and filling the woods to find her and drag her back.

She was still staring at her hand when she heard the approach of others from somewhere below.

Anxiety twisted in her gut, and she reached for the cloak. It shimmered over her like a second skin, as she moved to peer down into the clearing.

It wasn't soldiers; it was the dwarf and the apostate. She strained her ears to catch their quiet conversation.

“—the south bend. Or perhaps, north.”

“If she's headed home, I'd wager her taking the coast back to the closest port city,” Varric surmised.

She smiled despite herself, pleased that the dwarf had guessed right. She'd taken the coastline from Highever on her journey here; she would've backtracked that same way, if she had gone through with leaving.

“Perhaps,” the apostate mused.

Varric grumbled, “I'm not seeing _anything_. Do you elves even leave tracks in the snow?”

Solas looked amused, “Only when we mean to.”

The dwarf gave a huff of frustration as he peered off one way, and then the other.

“Master Tethras, perhaps you should head back toward the eastern pass,” Solas advised, abruptly. “Those at the outlook may have seen her pass through. I will continue to sweep the woods here.”

Varric gave him a quizzical frown, before grinning, “They had brandy the last time I was there. It's worth a look.”

Tephra was disappointed to see him leave. She would would have come down the tree for the dwarf.

The apostate lingered long after Varric departed. He turned slow on his heel, seemingly orienting himself to decide which way to go. When it seemed as though he'd made his choice, he turned suddenly toward the mossy tree, and looked right up at her.

Tephra's blood ran cold as she shrank backward, like a truant child caught out beyond their curfew.

No one had ever seen through her cloak before.

“A fine trick, I must admit,” Solas remarked.

She'd expected anger, but his tone was steady and amiable — amused, even.

With a short, sharp sigh, she released the glamour. She frowned down at him, and asked, “Are they going to put me back in that prison?”

“Never,” Solas replied. The sudden steeliness of his tone took her aback. “Not while I am with you.”

He was returning her promise of protection.

Tephra's fingers tangled in the moss as she gripped the tree more tightly, and her frown softened to something less than defiance. Her guard wavered and dropped briefly, as she said, “Thank you.”

She wasn't just parroting his words back to him, this time. His sincerity, however short-lived it may be, had whittled away at her stubborn anger and left her unguarded.

She cleared her throat, letting her defiance slip back in as she said, “I'd sooner die than go back into that cell.”

The steely expression on his face softened to concern, as he said, “I am sorry you were treated as such. Ignorance often breeds injustice.”

She continued to frown down at him.

Given the short — and turbulent — history of their exchanges, she couldn't help but feel that this was some sort of elaborate jest on his part, or some kind of manipulation. The templars had brought out an anger and wariness in her that she'd hadn't had for years, not since well after she rejoined her clan. She'd almost forgotten how easily it came to her, how easy it was to distrust the motives of other people. To mistake kindness for danger.

“It's not your injustice to apologize for,” she said, finally. “At least you spoke up and shamed them from continuing. You were the only one who—”

It flustered her to admit that he had come to her defense, multiple times now. Saved her life — _twice_ now. Attempted to be friendly, when he wasn't being an asshole. She cleared her throat, “You weren't unkind, at least.”

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” Solas parroted her words back to her, with a look of amusement.

She bit back a smile, and flushed. _Ass_.

How long had he'd been waiting to turn that back against her?

She huffed, and grumbled as she changed the subject, “How did you find me? Most wouldn't have noticed me up here.”

“I am not most,” he replied, amusement still playing across his face. “You forget that I am apostate. I know much of the ways of concealment, of eluding danger. That trick of yours was _magic_. I had not thought you a mage. I'm usually better at sensing such things about people.”

Tephra's insides churned at the accusation, “I'm _not_.”

“Then you must be the first magic producing not-mage in all of Thedas,” Solas declared, with a flourish of his hand.

She flushed; now he _was_ joking with her, and yet she was certain he was also mocking her in some manner. Even if he wasn't, he had the unfortunate habit of seeming to be. “Then it was magic,” she conceded. “But I am no mage. I have never been able to do anything besides that.”

There was an odd intensity in his features, as he explained, “Just as that mark on your hand is magic, so is that glamour you produced to conceal yourself. Crude, at best. Yet, still — magic. With guidance, it could be so much more.”

She gave a short, sharp sigh, “Did you come all the way out here to give me lessons? Is that what this is about?”

“No, of course not,” Solas relented. “There are many dangers in these woods. I'm sure you encountered a few on your travels to the Conclave.”

That was true enough.

Tephra shifted uncomfortably, thinking of how this must have looked to him. Leaving Haven in the middle of the night and going this far out into the woods greatly implied her intention to flee, regardless if she had changed her mind on the matter. “I wasn't running away. I just needed to be—”

Solas held up his hand, “You needn't explain yourself to me. There are no soldiers coming for you. No one but Varric and myself know of this.”

He slipped his traveling pack off his shoulder and set it against the tree, as he continued, “You have been through more in the last few days than most could handle across several lifetimes. I followed to make sure you were safe in your solitude, but I shall not bother you. You'll hardly know I'm here.”

She stared down at Solas, her mind turning over this change in his behavior. Regardless of their arguments, he had certainly gone out of his way to come out here and declare his intent to look out for her, to protect her. What had changed so drastically between that time, and now? Had it been something she said at the tavern? Or was it her own declaration to protect him that had warmed him to her, in whatever small way that this was? Finally, she asked, “Why would you do that for me?”

His expression softened as he tilted his head, “Because I understand what compelled you to flee.”

Well, at least when Cassandra found out, it wouldn't just be her ass thrown back in the prison.

“If you insist,” she relented.

“Take all of the time you need,” Solas said, as he busied himself with setting wards.

She watched him walk a wide perimeter around the tree, and with each sweeping gesture of his hand magic shimmered through the air. When he finished, he returned to where he'd laid his pack.

Solas pulled a torch from it and staked it into the ground near the tree. With a slight flourish of his hand, it burst alight. Settling against the tree, he reached for his pack and withdrew a book.

Tephra knew precisely what he was doing.

She'd learned this long ago, as a child — how to gain the trust of a wild thing. It took a great deal of patience, and hastiness would only earn a well-placed bite.

From the look of him, she was certain this apostate was a very patient man. Especially if he intended to sit down there on the frozen ground all night. There wasn't much snow around the base of the tree, but frozen ground was still frozen ground. Was he somehow immune to the cold? She still wasn't sure how he hadn't managed to lose his toes to frostbite yet.

 _Maybe it's a mage thing_ , she mused.

Below, Solas kept his word as he said nothing and simply started to read his book.

 _Suit yourself_.

She huffed and retreated back into the tree, hidden from sight. The curve of the branches held her just so, like the arms of a mother. It was cold, but the coat was warm enough. She'd endured colder nights before, and this was preferable to going back to Haven. Even if the cabin would have been warmer, it was a cage to her. Here, at least, there was the illusion of freedom. Even if for only a few hours.

And then she would have to go back.

 _I don't know how I'm supposed to do this_.

The words weighed heavily in her mouth, but she couldn't bring herself to say them. He would just say what they all would say — that she had no choice. She _must_. It was only just every person in the world depending on her to not fail.

Below, the apostate remained silent. And yet, there was a strange comfort in his presence — an unspoken assurance that she wasn't alone.

Tephra pulled up her hood over her head; it was too big for her, but it served well enough to cover her face to block out the cold. She drew her forearms up into the opposite sleeves, and brought her knees to her chest.

The world became nothing more than the small, dark space of her hood.

And for the first time since her life had been thrown into chaos, she drifted to sleep with ease.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


The words were blurring on the page, again.

His head dipped heavily, then snapped back up.

Solas set the book in his lap as he laid his head back against the tree, and shut his eyes. The barriers he'd set blocked out the biting winter winds of the night, and the torch offered just enough warmth to banish the chill in his body. The limits of his weakened state pressed heavily on him. Even after a year, he was still not used to it — at this rate, he may as well have been mortal.

Mortal, like her — a quickened shadow of she should have been.

Though he had to admit, that despite her limited nature, she stubbornly strained against those confines and pushed herself well beyond reasonable expectations. It was admirable, to see one so limited struggle so fiercely.

When she rose from the ground and staggered to the rift to once again open herself to the power of the mark—

“You have to be _quiet_.”

It was a child’s voice that spoke and broke the stillness of the forest.

Solas straightened, and peered around the small clearing.

His torch was gone, and the trees had changed.

 _A dream_.

When had he'd fallen asleep? It was generally a more nuanced process for him, a purposeful transition from waking to dreaming. But then, he had not slept much since the Breach opened.

Rising to his feet, Solas turned in a slow circle and took in his surroundings. He was not in the forest surrounding Haven, but rather somewhere else — somewhere warmer. It was an old-growth forest, nestled somewhere deep and untouched. The trees had shifted from firs and pines and aspens to elms and oaks and maples. Moss and lichen blanketed nearly everything.

It occurred to him, suddenly and at once, that this was not his dream.

The only thing that broke the stillness was the crying of a very small child, which filtered down to his ears from somewhere above.

Solas turned and found himself standing below a massive wych elm.

He didn't know what drew this memory to him in the Fade, but his curiosity got the better of him and he moved toward the tree. It was an easy climb, as the knotted bark provided many grasps and footholds.

Nestled in the fork of branching limbs, were two young elves. One was not quite ten years, if he had to guess, and the other was little more than a toddler.

The younger one fussed, breath hitching with every inhalation. He was dark where the other was light, with coal-black hair and an olive complexion. The other, holding him and whispering quiet, soothing words was—

 _Tephra_.

“They'll come back for us,” she said, nodding as if she were trying to assure herself as well as the boy. “We just have to wait here until they find us.”

She was clutching the boy almost as tightly as the bone dagger in her hand.

His mind swam with questions. Had they been abandoned, or lost? What had happened to their parents? They had to have been away from their clan, if something had befallen their parents and none of her kin had come to their aid.

And then they heard it, at the same time.

The crack and snap of small branches giving beneath the weight of something heavy. Below him, a black bear was making its way up the elm. It had been drawn to the sounds of the fussing toddler.

Tephra made the grievous mistake of looking out from where the branches concealed her. The color left her face, and she gave a strangled cry of fear. The knife fell from her grasp as shock loosened her grip, and fell uselessly to the ground. The toddler squirmed and began to cry in her arms as she retreated back into the hollow between the branches.

The bear advanced ponderously, and unhurried.

A sick unease clutched in Solas's stomach as he watched her scramble further up into the tree, carrying the toddler with one arm.

He did not want to see this, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.

The boy clung to her, arms thrown tight around her neck as he watched the bear advance from over her shoulder. He'd gone silent, as an innate primal fear set in, the way small prey froze in fear instead of fleeing.

Solas could see that the boy had been secured to her by a long strip of cloth, much in the style of elven mothers, but it was too large for her and had been knotted several times to account for her small size. It had been done in haste, but the knots were secure. It — as well as her coat — was soaked in old blood, but neither she nor the boy seemed injured.

He could only wonder at what terrible event had befallen their caretakers.

Solas moved further up and followed after them, climbing up the branch opposite of them. His heart was pounding in his ears; he did not want to see the horrible likely conclusion of this memory, but he was helpless to pull himself away from it.

No, not helpless. He could have easily disentangled himself from her dream, but he was _invested_. Even if he could not change the outcome of the memory.

As the bear mounted the same branch as the children, it swayed under their combined weight. Tephra clutched at the branch to keep from falling. When it stopped swaying long enough for her to reclaim her steadiness, she stood and craned to reach the one above her. She gripped hold of it, and launched herself upward with what strength she had left. Her torso curled up and she wrapped her legs around the branch, hugging herself to it with the boy tucked in between.

Her small, shrill voice cut through the forest around them as she screamed, “Go _away!_ ”

The bear gave a low rumble as it moved out further on the branch. In a matter of moments, it would be within swiping range.

Tephra's arms trembled, and she was losing her grip. Her abject fear was palpable, rushing through her and around her, before it crested some threshold and _peaked_ —

The air shimmered around her.

Solas could feel the magic manifesting in her, as she reached for a power that had been stolen from her long before her birth.

She called to it, and it _heeded_.

The glamour clutched tight around her and the toddler, and they disappeared effectively from sight.

Further, still — the spell pushed _forward_ , forming into a barrier.

Solas couldn't help but feel a thrill of admiration as he watched it shimmer and lock into place just as the bear swiped forward. Its paw smashed into the invisible barrier, which was as ungiving as stone.

The bear gave a pained bellow and thrashed in disorientation as it tried to figure out where its prey had gone. Its frenzied movements bore down on the branch beneath it, and it began to crack. It took only seconds for it to give and send the bear tumbling helplessly to the ground, some eight meters below.

The bear rolled and stirred and began to limp from the wych elm. Whatever injury it had sustained effectively deterred it from any further attempt of locating the children.

Still cloaked, Tephra managed to pull both her and the toddler up onto the branch she was clinging to. As the magic shimmered away, he was met by the awe on her face.

The spell had surprised her just as much as the bear.

 _This must have been the first time_ , he surmised.

Her cloaking spell had manifested out of necessity — two little ones alone in the forest. It must have been her way to keep him safe.

Yet, it was also more than that.

In this age, where his people were steadily losing their connection to magic and to the Fade, she had reached through the world and grasped onto it. Where no magic had resided before, now that seed was inside her. She had done something he had not thought possible.

How had she reversed it? How had she, in this sleeping mortal world, reforged a link that had been lost to so many?

In his world — the world that had been taken from her people — magic would have been with her from the moment she quickened in her mother's womb. It would have been with her from the first breath she drew, to the last. It would have always been hers to call upon, as familiar to her as her own self, her own spirit.

The forest shifted around him, until he was no longer in the tree. He was in some other part of the old forest, on the ground again. Somewhere around him, he heard the echoing cries of animal sounds being mimicked between two voices.

He saw them now, running at full speed as one chased the other, moving fluidly through the tangled undergrowth as if they'd been born to it. The toddler had become a boy, roughly the age she'd been in the prior memory, and now she was well into her girlhood.

Solas bolted after them, to keep up. He followed as they weaved and ducked through the forest, without a care in the world.

Tephra carried a self-made bow. Her long white hair was a tangle of braids and kinks, crudely cut at the ends. The boy's long black hair was braided as well, and had likely never been cut. They were dressed in a haphazard assortment of scavenged, ill-fitting clothing, likely stolen from hunting camps.

The boy gave a shrill call — some bird call that Solas did not recognize. From some distant part of the forest, a bird responded in kind. The boy gave a celebratory whoop, hopping along on skinny legs as he followed after his sister. Even though their coloring was drastically different, their faces were too similar to be anything less than siblings.

When she stilled suddenly, the boy followed suit. All childish play was gone from them as she drew down into a crouch and readied her bow. She nocked and loosed with deft movements, and speared a pheasant before it could take flight. The boy was on it quickly, and snapped its neck efficiently to end its thrashing.

And then, they were no more than wisps fading away as the memories shifted around him.

The uneven, chaotic state of Tephra's dreams clearly reflected her waking anxiety. She was troubled — therefore, her dreams reflected it with troubling memories. Somehow, in his fatigue, he'd carelessly slipped into her dreams through proximity. Thinking of her as sleep took him had been his mistake, and the Fade had responded naturally to reflect it.

As the chaotic tangle of memories shifted and shaped around him, Solas prepared himself to draw himself out of her dreams. He had not been invited here, and he wasn't one to make a habit of eavesdropping into the dreams of the living unless there was an unavoidably strategic advantage to be gained from it.

She'd had enough of her choices and freedoms and dignity stripped from her; he would not add to that ever-growing list. Even an unknowing indignity was still an indignity, nonetheless.

As he began to withdraw, he heard a sound that tore through him and turned his blood to ice. Grief, in its rawest form. Inarticulate, wordless horror. Whatever memory it was tied to, it slipped quickly past, torn away in the riptide of the Fade as it shifted formlessly around him. It left him feeling shaken by the depth of its pain, but he did not reach to pull it back.

She was not some ruin, passively waiting to give up its secrets. Her memories were her own.

The last piece of her dream flitted past and he caught sight of her again.

Still half-grown, wild-eyed and cornered by a group of Dalish hunters. Notably alone. Locked down into a defensive crouch with her bow drawn rigid, ready to fire on them. Face pulled taut by a feral fight-or-flight response that warred across her features. One of the hunters stepped carefully forward, moving slow and extending his palms out in a pacifying gesture.

“Ame eth, da'len,” the hunter was saying as the dream winked away.

Still, he heard her voice.

“ _Solas_.”

He woke with a start.

The Herald was crouched before him, elbows on her knees. The first light of dawn illuminated the forest in a faint golden hue. If she had any awareness that he'd been in her dreams, she did not show it. In his mind's eye, he could still see that cornered creature with a bow drawn and ready to loose — feral and furious and wearing her face. Like an image laid over an image.

“Time to go,” Tephra said, fighting back a yawn.

He could not help but wonder at the memories he'd seen. How long had she been in those woods, unfound? Who was the boy, and where was he now? What paths had her life taken to go from that to whatever took her back to her clan, to ultimately end up here? Were all of her dreams so _restless?_

No wonder she was still tired — _he_ was tired. He felt as if he hadn't slept at all.

Had it been like this for her every night, since the Breach? Or longer still? How had her body not given out yet to such an extended state of exhaustion?

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “We should head back before Cassandra takes notice of our absence.”

He stood and collected his pack. As he shrugged it on, he cast a sidelong glance at the elf as she stared off in the direction of Haven. Something had shifted in her, and it reflected on her face. Acceptance, perhaps, but not an admittance of defeat. A stubborn sort of concession to her predicament. Her body was drawn tight like an arrow, waiting to be loosed.

Once again, he had the unsettling feeling that he'd greatly underestimated her — this unlikely bearer of his Anchor. Even her dreams had somehow ensnared his attention.

_What are you?_

Her gaze turned to meet his, as if she'd somehow heard his thoughts. Cast in the light of sunrise and flushed from the cold, she surprised him with a smile as she asked, “Are you ready?”

Solas had the curious feeling that he wasn't at all ready — that something loomed before him, unknown and unknowable and most certainly dangerous. And yet he returned the smile, as he felt his pulse quicken in a curious manner.

“I believe I am.”  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


She hadn't realized how far she'd gone from Haven until they were well on their way back through the forest.

At first, the apostate remained locked in silence, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. She didn't mind much; it was preferable to the heated exchanges and excessive frowning that seemed to arise any time they spoke more than a few words to each other.

The easy silence didn't last long, though.

“Much will be asked of you, given your new title, but you must remember that closing the Breach is our primary goal,” Solas spoke up, breaking the stillness that had settled between them. “Do not lose sight of that.”

Tephra shot a glance up to the sky, and gave an amused huff, “That would be quite the accomplishment, given that it's hanging over us wherever we go.”

The apostate gave her a tight smile, “I hope that we may also discover what was used to create it, as well. Any artifact of such power is dangerous — the destruction of the Conclave proves that much.”

She had not considered that something else could have been responsible for the Breach. Her hand clutched into a fist, and she felt the restless thrum of the magic nesting there. Something had put this magic in her hand. She had been sure of that from the beginning. Why had she not considered this before?

_Because crazy shit hasn't stopped happening long enough for you to think straight._

Her mouth set in a hard line at the thought. How empty-headed she must have seemed to him. “You don't think whatever created the explosion was destroyed in the blast?”

“You survived, did you not?” Solas's look of amusement was brief, before once again his tone turned grave, “The artifact that created the Breach is unlike anything seen in this age. I will not believe it destroyed until I see the shattered fragments with my own eyes.”

 _An odd distinction_. Tephra quirked an eyebrow, and echoed, “This age?”

The apostate gave her a long-suffering look, as he said, “Have you forgotten already? I have walked the Fade extensively and I have seen many such artifacts of power beyond imagining. Magic in this age is far more diminished than it has been in any age before it.”

She looked at her fist, and unfurled it to bare her palm. “Do you suppose that artifact is what did this to me?”

Solas gave her a measured look, before he conceded, “A plausible theory, in the absence of truth. One we can only confirm by recovering the artifact itself.”

“Then perhaps it could take it back from me,” Tephra mused as she flexed the hand, and was met by the shimmering seam of light igniting in her palm.

When she looked back at Solas, his eyebrows were knitted together in uncertainty, or perhaps concern. There was an odd weight to it, a heaviness — there was far too much that he wasn't saying.

 _It's still killing me, and he knows it_.

More slowly, certainly, but killing her nonetheless. She could _feel_ it, creeping a slow path further up her hand with every day that passed.

And he knew it just as much as she did. Was it sadness she saw there in his expression, or perhaps pity? If they never recovered the artifact, then it was likely that she could—

Tephra averted her gaze, and huffed. What use was speculating at this point? Looking ahead as she walked, she said, “Anything with that sort of power is bound to turn up again.”

“Leliana's people have scoured the area near the blast and have found nothing. Whatever the artifact was, it is no longer there.”

“So, someone survived to take it,” she concluded. “Whoever did it — or helped to do it.”

“It is very likely, yes,” Solas replied. His tone had gone flat, and decidedly neutral.

“All of this shit — and for what? Why would someone want to do this? What could they have possibly stood to gain by all of those deaths?” The anger in her voice surprised her.

The anger in his, however, was more surprising. Tightly-leashed and reigned in, but it edged apostate's words sharply. “Discontent with the state of the world? Delusions of grandeur? Destruction for destruction's sake? It is hard to speculate on the mindset of an unknown enemy.”

Briefly, she recalled the figure she'd seen in the vision at the Breach. Towering, cast in shadows — indiscernible and imposing. The memory of his voice alone set her teeth on edge.

She cast a curious glance at Solas, as she asked, “Do you think he's one of us or—”

Solas gave her a puzzled frown, as he echoed, “One of _us?_ ”

Tephra frowned at him. Was he kidding? She couldn't help her amusement, as she used her forefingers to wiggle her ears at him. She also couldn't help the small, playful smile that crossed her face.

His frown shifted to surprise, as he said, “Oh, you mean the _elves_.”

“What else would I mean?”

Surely, he was pulling her leg.

“My apologies — it's just that I don't consider myself to have much in common with the elves,” he replied. “I hope in the future that you can see that there is more to me than just my pointed ears.”

Decidedly _not_ kidding.

Her humor died away as she retracted her hands and her face settled into a frown. Every time she attempted to reach out, in her own stupid way, she was met with this wall that he had erected between them — this need to make a distinction of their differences. To say: _We are not the same_.

It gave her an unsettling feeling, like being adrift at sea with no land in sight. And she could have kicked herself, for being so weak — for letting herself seem so lonely.

“Yes, and perhaps you can also extend the effort to see past this,” she replied, her tone clipped and sharp as she gestured dismissively at the marks on her face.

His eyebrows drew down into a frown — his eyes once again regarded her in that strangely unsettling way. Seeing and not seeing. As though he was seeing through her, or that she was somehow not entirely there.

His eyes were a startling shade of grey — like tempered steel and storm clouds and rough seas. Impassive, and impassable.

How very much they suited him.

She averted her gaze, and lapsed into silence.

It bothered her, the lengths he went to distance himself, to make that oddly specific distinction — _the elves_. Did he not see himself as an elf? Was that view something born out of living as an apostate?

There was something there, unspoken, that unsettled her.

An uneasy silence settled between them as they reached the road that led down to Haven. She could see the fields where the templars and Inquisition soldiers were camped. Many were already out practicing and running exercise drills.

“As to your question — no, I do not believe our adversary is an elf,” Solas replied, finally.

She kept her silence as she walked.

He sighed, and said, “I've offended you again.”

She could have laughed, but didn't. “You do have that way about you.”

“Perhaps my time apart from civilization has worn away at my manners,” he mused. “Forgive me.”

“For what? Voicing your opinions? You don't owe me any excuses for the animosities you keep,” she replied.

She could only wonder at what wrongs her people had inflicted upon him, to have provoked such antagonism. Had they truly treated him so terribly?

No matter how his statements provoked her, what did she know of his life, his experiences? He knew as much of hers and she knew of his, which was nothing at all.

As far as she was concerned, he was perfectly within his rights to piss her off. She wouldn't judge him for having differing opinions. He'd walked an entirely different path in life than she had. Hell, she understood the mechanism of it — how easily animosity could be formed, where before there was none at all. Her view of templars had been irrevocably colored by her recent experiences. Even now, looking at them in the distance gave her anxiety.

“You mistake me—”

“Do I?” She fixed him with a searching look, and was met again by his impenetrable stare. She could see the tension in his posture, as though he expected condemnation, or ridicule, or something otherwise dismissive. She softened, if only slightly, as she said, “You've made your feelings quite clear on my people. Point received. I'll try to not further diminish the Dalish in your eyes, if I can.”

Now he was flustered; his jaw worked silently.

It probably wasn't the best apology, or even close to one, but it was all she was willing to give. She averted her gaze, and quickly shifted the subject as she asked, “You're neither a city elf, nor Dalish. Who then are your people?”

“A good question,” he replied, tersely. “I joined the Inquisition to save the world, regardless of who _my_ people are — this is the best way to help them.”

Tephra stopped walking. “Do you not have anyone — family? Friends?”

He stopped and regarded her, before replying carefully, “I have many friends, though as to whether they truly count as such would depend on your perspective.”

_Perspective?_

She made the connection almost immediately.

He was an apostate, and a dreamer-mage.

 _Of course_.

She hazarded a guess, “You mean spirits?”

“Yes,” he replied, in a neutral tone. His posture loosened, if only slightly, as he continued, “I have built many lasting friendships with them. Spirits of wisdom, possessed of ancient knowledge, happy to share what they had seen. Spirits of purpose helped me search. Even wisps, curious and playful, would point out treasures I might have missed in my travels.”

“I haven't heard of spirits by those names,” she admitted.

“They rarely seek this world,” Solas informed. “When they do, their natures do not often survive exposure to the people they encounter. Wisdom and purpose are too easily twisted to pride and desire.”

The memory of the massive, hulking pride demon they'd fought at the Breach flared in her mind. “Those are demon names,” she responded, carefully.

He regarded her with a cool stare, “They were not demons for me.”

A curious frown crossed her face, as she asked, “What do you mean?”

“The Fade reflects the minds of the living,” he replied. “If you expect a spirit of wisdom to be a pride demon, it will adapt. And if your mind is free of conflicting influences — if you understand the nature of the spirit? They can be fast friends.”

_And the dead — what of the dead?_

The question wrestled in the pit of her stomach, but she kept her silence.

Honestly, she knew hardly anything of spirits at all.

That knowledge was generally passed from Keeper to Keeper, and taught to the mages — the Firsts, and the healers. She was only a hunter, and an apprentice to the herbalist. She was no mage, and on no path toward being Keeper. Of the few times she'd tried to broach the topic with her Keeper, she was dismissed and chided for being far too interested in such a dangerous subject.

Tephra had learned to keep her preoccupation with the Beyond to herself — learned to swallow the questions that plagued her. And here this dreamer-mage not only walked in the Beyond, in the Fade — he made friends with the spirits that dwelt there.

She couldn't help but wonder if she too could meet such spirits and ask them all she wanted to know of the nature of souls and death. Or would they be twisted by her mind, as Solas said? Was she tainted by prejudices she wasn't even aware of holding? She didn't feel that she held any preconceived notions towards spirits, but did the simple knowledge that some viewed them as dangerous somehow corrupt her vision of them?

It all made her terribly _curious_.

But the last time she'd even tried to broach the subject, he'd shut her down at the mention of the Dalish. And to be honest, she was still rather sore about how quickly and thoroughly he'd dismissed her. She wasn't entirely certain a second attempt would achieve anything more than a scathing critique of her ignorance on the subject.

She stifled the questions writhing in her gut, and started toward Haven again.

Solas fell into pace with her, silent for a time, before he asked, “Have I unsettled you? Given the Dalish's long history of making no distinctions between spirits and demons, and finding them equally dangerous, I would not be surprised if I had.”

She had to admit; he had an uncanny ability to make apologies that weren't quite apologies at all. It wasn't even worth getting angry at the not-so-subtle shot at her people. If he was trying to provoke her to prove his own assertions on Dalish attitudes, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

“Not at all,” she replied, evenly.

His eyes narrowed as he gave her a measured frown. Clearly, he had expected another response, or perhaps an argument. Had he meant to goad her into a heated discussion on spirits? Did he expect her to have the same opinion he'd so broadly declared her people to have?

He would have been sorely disappointed — she harbored no ill-will to spirits, and he would have found her knowledge of them severely lacking at best.

As he lapsed into silence, she quickened her pace.

She avoided the gazes of the soldiers as she passed them, thinking only of the apostate lagging behind her, out of sight. She wasn't sure what to make of him, but he clearly wished to help in what ways he could, even at the risk of being persecuted as an apostate. It was more than she could say for herself — she was still at best resigned to her role, and at worst, angry and defiant. Yet, for all of his willingness to help, he clearly had a problem with her. Whether it was her heritage, the happenstance of her situation, or possibly her inherently stubborn nature — she couldn't say. If she had to guess, she would say it was all of those things, and he probably would find more things to dislike about her as time passed.

And even that was when he actually seemed to see her, to take notice of the things that bothered him. Most of the time, it seemed as though he was merely an observer, watching the events unfold around them from somewhere deep inside of himself.

Tephra did not know how long it would take to close the Breach, or if she would ever be free from this role that had been thrust upon her, but she did not care to spend the duration of that time fighting with the people around her. If she could keep her defiant nature in check and make peace where she could, this whole Herald thing would be marginally easier to deal with. At the very least, she could try and avoid taking the bait whenever he mentioned elves or the Dalish, and avoid mentioning them herself.

The gate of Haven loomed above her as she turned, and declared, “I should like to meet them one day, I think. These Wisdoms and Purposes.”

She distinctly left “spirits” out of her declaration, given that they were no longer alone and chantry sisters and soldiers moved amongst them, bustling in and out of the gateway. She had promised to protect him, and she _would_ — even if he was insufferable most of the time.

She could have laughed at the look of surprise that crossed his solemn face as Solas stopped dead in his tracks, but she didn't. She simply flashed him an arch look before turning on her heel and ducking through the gate. She headed for the tavern, and the apostate did not follow after her.

It didn't really matter to her if he believed her, or not. He seemed to have made up his mind about her from the moment they'd met. And the apostate seemed rather enamored of his prejudices; she hadn't the heart to part him from them.

At the tavern, she was pleased to find Varric there, sitting across from the Seeker and enjoying his breakfast. He did not take notice of her until she sat in the chair next to him.

“Ah, the Herald graces us with her presence,” the dwarf quipped, and smiled at her warmly.

If the Seeker had any knowledge of her excursion, the woman did not show it, as she inclined her head in greeting.

“I may be lacking a bow currently, but I assure you I can still make my mark,” Tephra retorted, reaching for a fork and pointing it toward him in a playful manner.

Varric raised his hands in mock defeat, and laughed. “I yield, I yield.”

She turned her attention back to the spread of platters that had been set on the table between Cassandra and Varric, before reaching for a plate of runny eggs. She also swiped a large piece of toasted bread from the neighboring platter.

She jabbed the eggs with the bread until the yolks split, and began sopping it up. Whatever small rebellion she'd had against eating their food was easily conceded in the face of a hot breakfast and an empty stomach.

Varric gave a laugh, and said, “Honestly, I wasn't _eggspecting_ you to show up for breakfast. You must've woken sunny-side-up, Snowflake.”

Cassandra made a sound of disgust and sighed heavily.

The laugh that left Tephra surprised her, just as much as them.

Varric winked at her, and said, “Yeah, you're gonna be fine, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit difficult for me. I'm not sure I'm 100% happy with it. Ah well.
> 
> Specific Elven used and credited to the work of FenxShiral:  
> Ame eth. — You are safe.
> 
> For those curious, this is my Inquisitor: [Tephra Lavellan](http://pushtheheart.tumblr.com/tagged/Tephra+Lavellan).


	7. Things We Lost In The Fire, Pt. I

That's a succinct summary of humankind, I'd say.  
Who needs tomes and volumes of history? Children are dying.  
The injustices of the world hide in those three words.  
― _Steven Erikson, Deadhouse Gates_

We do this because the world we live in  
is a house on fire and the people we love are burning.  
― _Sandra Cisneros_

 

 

The journey from Haven to the outskirts of the Hinterlands took three days.

Several squadrons of the Inquisition's forces had been sent ahead to establish camps throughout the area, to begin the work of stabilizing the countryside. However small the fledgling Inquisition's forces were, he had to give them credit for their enthusiasm to restore peace where they could. While the various political and religious forces at work in Thedas scrambled to maintain their systems of power, the Inquisition acted to protect the civilians who'd been left in the crossfire of war and unrest.

There were several of his own agents planted among them, as scout recruits and camp laborers. While they had not yet managed to track down the magister's whereabouts, it seemed that whatever remained of his forces after the explosion at the conclave had seemingly vanished into thin air. Frustrating as it was, it was only a matter of time until they resurfaced.

And he was nothing, if not patient. He could wait.

For the time being, he spent his days acclimating to the rhythms and moods of his companions and learning what he could of them, while offering only what was necessary to maintain their trust.

Their group was accompanied by several squads for the duration of the trip from Haven, until they reached the outskirts of the Hinterlands. They were dispersed by the Seeker and sent to various scouting locations to survey and collect information. From that point on, their small group traveled unaccompanied by Inquisition forces.

The first night, they camped far from any notion of civilization, much to the dwarf’s dismay. Tethras was too occupied with airing his complaints to notice the Herald slip away. The Seeker was well-occupied with assembling tents, but the elf’s absence did not go unnoticed for long.

She hadn't used her glamor, nor had she taken her horse — that much told him that she hadn’t intended to go far, and would soon return. He saw no need in outing her, lest he further diminish his standing in her good graces. He simply kept his silence as he assisted by setting wards and constructing a suitable campfire.

It was long before the Seeker was seething, as she paced around the campfire.

“Of course she would wait until _now_ to escape when our forces are scattered between Haven and the Hinterlands!” the woman raged.

It would have been more prudent to stay out of the matter, but Solas could not help but bristle as he asked, “Is she still considered a prisoner?”

The Seeker fixed him with a tight look of annoyance, “No, she is _not_.”

“Then perhaps we should not treat her as such,” he advised.

Cassandra snapped back, “There is a war on, if you've forgotten. And now we have reports of rifts opening up all over this area. Either of which could claim her life, and end whatever chance we have in fixing any of this!”

Before the human could voice any further complaints, Varric piped up, “She could have left at any time, Seeker. Maybe she's just stretchin' her legs and getting some air. That poor girl hasn't had a second to herself since the Breach spat her out.”

The Seeker's anger wavered, but did not relent. “Then why didn't she tell us her intentions? She could be anywhere by now!”

“She'll be back,” Varric said, waving his arm dismissively as he settled by the fire.

Cassandra frowned sharply, “How can you be so sure?”

Varric busied himself with pulling out a cleaning kit, and laying his crossbow across his lap, “Because unlike you, Seeker, I happen to be a great judge of character. She'll be back.”

The Seeker stalked to the opposite side of the campfire and sat down across from him in a frustrated huff, and began to work her sword with a whetstone. The two of them settled into uneasy silence as they worked on their respective weapons.

Neither of them spoke to Solas, which left him to the relative peace of his own thoughts. They were each, in their own way, preoccupied with the elf who carried his Anchor — just as he often was.

A matter of pragmatism, really.

The absence of personal information — and her unwillingness to share it with any of them, even the dwarf she was so fond of — made him terribly curious. He hoped by the time they returned to Haven, his agents would have turned up more than he'd been able to. It was unwise to let so much of his plans rest on the shoulders of an unknown element, and there were too many questions that had been stirred up from what he had witnessed in her dreams.

He was still not sure how exactly he’d ended up there, to begin with. She was no Dreamer, not even a mage. She dreamt as all the other non-mages did — subconscious forays into the Fade that reflected their experiences, their memories, all of the unspoken and unresolved matters in their lives, with no control or ability to direct its subject or path.

Perhaps it had been the Anchor which had drawn his dreaming mind into hers. There would always be a latent connection between them, as long as she bore the mark. He would have to be more careful in the future, so as to not trespass where he had not been invited. Enough of her freedoms were being taken from her; he would not add to it, if he could help it.

He was curious to see if the Anchor would affect her dreaming over time. If she might gain lucidity and awareness, or if she would remain unknowing of her own dreaming. If perhaps she did gain the ability to shape her own dream, he would be keen to teach her how to control it, were she so inclined. But he doubted that she would be, as such a thing required trust, and what they had could hardly pass for more than an uneasy alliance.

There were moments where she seemed to warm to him briefly, but they were quickly withdrawn in the wake of their arguments, or more often his criticisms of her people. Whatever ground he gained with her, he often lost just as much and just as quickly soon after, as she treated him with the same indifference as the rest of them.

Except for the dwarf.

Solas cast a surreptitious frown at the dwarf, who was fully absorbed with oiling the gears of his crossbow. At this point, he was certain that Master Tethras could do no harm in the Herald's eyes, as she was inexplicably fond of the dwarf.

In his world, showing such favoritism to an undreaming would have been considered eccentric, at best — aberrant, at worst.

And it wasn't particularly difficult to imagine her in his world, to imagine what she could have been. For a shadow, she was a remarkable imitation. Unbowed and rebellious, still fighting against the bonds of a fate unfairly thrust upon her — and yet he'd seen a streak of nuance in her, a deviation he had not anticipated.

Curiosity; an openness to the unknown.

_“I should like to meet them one day, I think. These Wisdoms and Purposes.”_

It threw him off, left him unsteady and worrying her declaration in the days since they'd left Haven, picking at it in his mind like a bothersome scab. There had been nothing to suspect duplicity on her part — what could she have gained from making such a statement? The favor of an apostate at the mercy of the Inquisition? No, he was almost certain she'd been entirely sincere, and it had been enough to spur his imagination to envision what she could have been in his world.

A seeker of knowledge, like himself? Or one who shook and shaped the foundations of their society? Whatever she would have been, it would have certainly been something to behold. She would have been so much more, she would have been what she deserved to be — whole. He could easily imagine her among the ones who followed him into rebellion — fierce and furious and free. She would not be what she was now — stunted, made blind and deaf to what the world should be, to what she should be, and seeking the company of a creature that couldn't even _dream_.

But she was just one of many who had been robbed of their potential, of their personhood, for his catastrophic misestimation in creating the Veil.

But fanciful imaginings aside, he still knew very little of the Herald. What he did know of her painted an unusual picture that did not quite align with what he'd come to expect of the Dalish. He'd expected what he had encountered before — the smug superiority, the denouncement of anything that contradicted their beliefs, the childish ignorance, the unwillingness to open themselves to the truth.

He had not expected her curiosity. He had not expected her interest in the Fade — in spirits. Nor her rejection of superstition, in favor of practicality. She'd even gone so far as to denounce the gods — Elvhen and otherwise — which was outright heretical coming from a Dalish elf.

Whatever he’d expected, it had not been _her_.

Sharp-witted and perceptive — almost _too_ perceptive. Very little escaped her notice, and he found himself watching his words around her. She had an almost impish, playful sense of humor that she kept hoarded to herself. And _wisdom_ —

_“Waging war on one another never ends in our freedom. There is only more blood — and deeper trenches. And soon a day when none of us are left.”_

He was still startled at times by her words, by the truths that came hurtling out of her mouth in moments of heated discussion. She was far too young, too inexperienced, to be filled with such truths.

No, she was continually proving herself to be something entirely different than what he'd expected, and it left him fumbling for an explanation. Surely, _something_ had to account for it.

The disjointed glimpses he that he had witnessed in her dreams spoke of a disrupted early life, but any assumptions he could make was at best conjecture until his agents provided him with what truths they could uncover. And he could hardly broach such an invasive subject with her — especially given that he rightly should have had no knowledge of it in the first place.

And then there was the matter of her magic.

He'd had time to further consider the manifestation event that he had witnessed in her dream during the days they'd spent traveling from Haven. At first, he'd considered that perhaps there was something unique about her that had restored the broken link between her and the Fade, but he had quickly dismissed that. Beyond her current possession of the Anchor, there was nothing particularly uncommon about her to suggest such a thing. So then it had not been an event unique to her, but perhaps proof — in some manner — that something remained in the modern elves that gave them the potential to be restored to what they once were in his world. Their link to the Fade was broken, but perhaps not entirely severed. They dreamed, still, and the seed of magic remained in them, even if it had become largely dormant.

But that thought only produced a troubling conflict.

Not only in that they _could_ be restored — that they could be of the People again — but that they could also already be more than what he'd thought them to be. More than just flesh constructs and shadows, more than just Tranquil.

But that was impossible to consider.

This world was too horrible and too diminished to produce anything but shadows, and he needed to focus on restoring this world for _his_ people. He could almost — _almost_ — see how his friend had made the fatal mistake in considering them to be more, to be worthy of such consideration.

That lapse of judgement had cost Felassan dearly, and Solas had taken no pleasure in killing him for it.

He could not afford to make the same foolish mistake.

Too much was at stake to confuse her, or any of them, as more than just poor imitations of the world he sought to restore — no matter if the elf managed to, at times, make him feel as though he were speaking with one his own. It was only his regret and longing for what was bleeding into his perception of her, and nothing more.

Nearly two hours passed before the Herald came walking out of the dark, strolling into the camp as if nothing were amiss. She carried an assortment of bundled items in her arms.

The Seeker rose to her feet and grimaced at the elf as she demanded, “Where did you go?”

“Some ways back there,” Tephra replied flatly, waving behind her in a vague direction. “Then slightly to the west. Around a bit there. Then back here.”

Still defiant, but there was a note of humor in her tone. Perhaps she was warming up to the Seeker, in her own way.

Varric gave a snort of laughter, before he said, “See? She's fine, and she came back. No harm done.”

“No harm? And what if harm came to her?” The Seeker rounded on Varric, and all but hissed, “We cannot afford to lose her.”

“This is true,” Solas spoke up, in agreement. The Herald shot him a frown as he continued, “Losing you would cripple any effort in closing the Breach for good.”

Still frowning sharply, she took one of the bundles she was carrying and held it out to Cassandra.

The Seeker eyed it warily, “What is it?”

Whatever it was, it was bundled in large waxy leaves, and secured with twine.

“A peace offering,” Tephra replied. Her frown softened, if only marginally. Though she looked liable to change her mind and revoke the gift at any moment.

Cassandra gave a frustrated sigh, and took the bundle. Tephra reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a smaller bundle and held it out for the Seeker to take. The taller woman cocked an eyebrow, and accepted it without further complaint.

The Herald moved on to Varric, handing him both a large and small bundle. The dwarf gave a chuckle, and said, “Is it my birthday, or did we overlook some weird elf holiday?”

Tephra pushed the dwarf's shoulder, almost playfully, before moving on around the campfire towards him.

Solas accepted the bundles as she handed them to him. He had to admit, he was curious as to what she'd spent her time away collecting.

“Ah, Snowflake,” Varric piped up, holding up a trout; it had already been gutted and cleaned. “You know we've brought supplies — you didn't need to run off and get all this.”

Solas opened the smaller bundle, which turned out to be an assortment of forage items — berries, edible roots, fiddleheads, morels, and a single black plum.

“Supplies are good when forage is scarce. There's plenty here, if you know how to look for it,” the elf replied.

“You should have mentioned your intentions before leaving,” Cassandra remarked, still annoyed. “I would have accompanied you.”

Settling down next to the dwarf, Tephra shot back, “Should I also ask for permission to go and take a piss, as well?”

The crude edge of her response sent the dwarf into a fit of laughter.

“Come on, Cassandra, lighten up,” Varric chortled. “If she was gonna hightail it outta here, she could have long ago. And she _didn't_. She brought you dinner. A fine first date, if you ask me.”

Varric winked at the Seeker, who gave a disgruntled sigh.

After fashioning a spit to roast the fish, they ate in relative silence. Solas busied himself with a book, which gave him the appearance of being busy while observing his companions and letting his thoughts wander.

There was an uneasiness between the new allies, save for whatever small bond had developed between the dwarf and the Herald. He spoke to her often, and his easy nature drew her out in a way that no one else seemed capable of.

Solas had first sighted Tethras in the tavern of a small mountain town near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The dwarf hadn't caught his attention until he had pinned a drunken man to the tavern wall with several crossbow bolts for harassing a serving woman. The night had otherwise been uneventful while he waited for the inevitable event of the magister unlocking his focusing orb. He had been writing several missives for his agents at the time. It was during that brief interruption that the tavern was rocked by the explosion of the Conclave as the Breach opened in the sky.

The Seeker’s men were among those in the tavern, as well, as the town had merely been a pit stop along their journey to the Conclave. He learned later that Tethras had been in the Seeker’s custody at the time, as she intended to present him to the Divine, for matters that hardly concerned him.

The chaos which resulted in the aftermath was distraction enough for him to slip away with the intent to reclaim his orb, but despairingly, he had found no trace of it in the smoldering rubble the temple had been reduced to. There had been no sign of the magister’s remains, nor of his people, either.

Little had gone as he’d expected. The explosion had been anticipated, but not that the magister would manage to tear a hole in the Veil, nor that he would be unable to reclaim his orb. With no means to regain his power or to close the breach in the Veil, panic set in. Solas had only just begun to order a retreat of his agents when word of a survivor began to circulate — of how she’d walked out of the Fade, and the strange mark burning on her hand.

He’d scarcely dared to hope, until he could confirm it with his own eyes. It had been a calculated risk approaching the Seeker’s forces, but he had no choice but to investigate the matter personally.

All of which had brought him to this — to having insinuated himself into the Inquisition, to have made himself an invualable resource regarding matters of the Fade, to a position to guide the bearer of his Anchor along into useful action while his agents worked to locate his focusing orb and the whereabouts of Corypheus. It had all brought him to this small alliance of unlikely companions, tethered around a single ultimate goal that happened to align with his own, for the time being.

The campsite remained rather quiet until the dwarf cracked open an Orlesian red. The Seeker refused his charitable offer, but the Herald partook of it with considerable enthusiasm. It was quickly apparent that she had little tolerance for alcohol. After two small cups, she was flushed and smiling and far more talkative than she had been in the entirety of her time with the Inquisition. She even provoked Cassandra into talking about herself, asking many questions of the Seeker's past.

Solas was surprised that the human indulged her. But then, there was an earnestness to the Herald's questions, and a softness she had not shown before.

When the subject turned toward the Seeker's family, however, the mood took a somber turn. Cassandra mentioned her brother briefly, but would not speak further on the subject. The implication in and of itself was enough to speak of his fate, and the heaviness that settled over the campsite was palpable.

The Herald rose, and moved to sit beside the Seeker. The sway in her movements spoke to her inebriation, but her sincerity was no less for it when she reached and place her hand over the woman's arm. A simple, brief clasp before her hand retreated back. She said nothing of her own brother, though, and they sat for a time in silence and watched the campfire.

It wasn't long after that when the Seeker retired to her sleeping roll and slept heavily. Tephra and Varric continued to talk well into the night as she curiously prodded the dwarf about his life and experiences, and said little of herself in return. Varric did not seem to mind the imbalance; he was quite content to speak of himself at length, though Solas was certain the dwarf was inclined toward embellishments. Their voices did not wake the Seeker, not even when the Herald broke the relative quiet of their campsite with a sudden laugh.

And of course it would be the dwarf who first coaxed a laugh out of the so-called Herald of Andraste.

Despite his efforts to keep up the appearance of being absorbed in his book, his attention was inevitably drawn to the pair of them, laughing together opposite of the campfire.

“—that's _ridiculous_ ,” she was saying, as she pushed the dwarf's shoulder in a playful manner.

“No, I'm serious,” Varric insisted, despite his gravelly laughter.

“I'd have to see it for myself," Tephra declared, before adding another skewer of fish to the fire pit.

Solas set his book down in his lap and asked, rather impulsively, "And that is?"

Her amusement didn't cool or retreat when she looked at him. Even though the smile wasn't for him, it had a curious effect on him nonetheless.

“Oh, Varric insists he's fought a dragon. Naked. And won.” She gave the dwarf an impish smile, “And I'm calling _bullshit_.”

The dwarf laughed as he protested, “It took half a year for my ass hair to grow back!”

The elf was sent into another fit of incredulous laughter.

It took considerable effort to turn his attention back to his book. What did it matter who made her laugh first — or even at all?

Varric's irreverent demeanor could be disarming and had proved effective against her wariness from the moment they'd met. Solas couldn't fault the man; even _he_ laughed more around the dwarf than he had in a long time. Still, he could not help but feel a bit envious. It had not been Varric laboring for three days to keep the mark from consuming her after the Conclave exploded, to keep her vitals steady, to keep her nightmares from causing catastrophic stress to the functions of her heart. And then for a second time, after the attempt at the Breach.

Maybe it had something to do with being away from the chantry, away from Haven, away from people vying for her time and services. Perhaps with just the four of them, it made it easier for her to let her guard down. Or perhaps it was a credit to the dwarf's personable nature, as she hadn't cracked so much as a smile at the Seeker. With most of them she had been, at best, indifferent — at worst, defiant.

But camped out here in the Hinterlands, surrounded by wilderness and sitting beside Varric, she'd dropped her guard. Limbs unfolded, elbows on her knees, leaning forward in interest, and the laughter — it transformed her. It lit up her face and sent Solas's stomach rolling in a curious manner.

Truthfully, he could not blame Varric for gaining the Herald's friendship in a more timely manner than himself. She had come to him in Haven, after the attempt at the Breach, amiable and unguarded. She had wanted to establish familiarity, even if simply on the merit of shared race. The memory of her playfully wiggling her ears at him nearly brought a smile to his face. He might have appreciated her sense of humor at the time, had he not been so preoccupied with dismissing her and distancing himself from her people.

How many times had he tried to reach out to the Dalish, only to be turned away? The sense of alienation had long since soured into resentment, especially now that one of them had tried to reach out to him.

In retrospect, he could have used a gentler approach when speaking of her people. There had been an openness in her face at the time, a kind of reaching out — kin to kin. But in his haste to dismiss and differentiate himself from modern elves, he'd offended her. And like a door snapped shut, the Herald had retreated back behind her guardedness and he'd yet to coax her out again.

After the night in the woods and their long walk back to Haven, he was cautiously optimistic that they'd managed to at least move vaguely in the direction of something amicable. Yet even so, she remained largely indifferent to him and did not seek him out for conversation the way she did with the dwarf, who joked often and told ridiculous stories and set her at ease with kind words.

Was it really so surprising to him that it would be Varric who'd gotten her name first before any of them, and now her laughter?

Solas was suddenly aware of the silence that had settled over the campsite. He lifted his gaze from his book to find them both settled down onto their sleeping rolls. When had they retired for the night? Had it already grown so late?

He found that time still moved strangely for him, even a year after waking from uthenera. Lapsing into his own thoughts could eat away hours in the blink of an eye. He had to force himself to be quicker, to match the pace of these mortals, to be more  _present —_ or he would find himself left behind, such as he was now.

At first, he thought they'd already gone to sleep, but the elf stirred and asked a quiet question. The dwarf sighed wearily, answering in the same low tone. Silence lapsed again, yet each time the night grew too still but for the snapping and popping of the campfire, she would start speaking to the dwarf again.

She was fighting off her own fatigue, reluctant to submit to sleep.

Solas was certain he knew why. He'd seen part of what awaited her there in the Fade.

Finally, the dwarf sighed, “Go to sleep, Snowflake.”

Tephra huffed, as she rolled over and tightened up into a protective curl.

As far as he'd seen, it was the only way she would sleep. Fully drawn into herself, curled into a tight knot. He was not surprised to find it to be when she was most at guard, when asleep was when one was at their most vulnerable.

“It’s not fair,” Tephra said quietly, from where she lay curled by the fire.

“I don’t make the rules, kid,” the dwarf grumbled, sleepily.

“I wish I didn’t dream, either.”

Such an off-handed statement, and yet it despaired Solas irrevocably to hear her say it.

Nightmares had existed as long as the Dreaming had, but they were easily banished. Dreaming was to his people as magic was — something natural and innate, something to be shaped, something to revel in. A means of renewal and learning and exploration.

It should not have been something she sought to avoid.

Her unwillingness to sleep spoke to the depth and frequency of her nightmares; it was uncommon for grief to have such a tight hold on a dreamer. He was starting to suspect that she was perhaps in the grip of a despair demon. If that were the case, he could cast it off, but that would require much more than simply observing her dreams.

He idly considered casting a spell to banish her nightmares, if only for the night, to give her proper rest. But that would be yet another intrusion upon her, however kindly it was meant. As it stood, they were not on the friendliest of terms, let alone familiar terms. Even if he offered such services to her, he doubted she would accept the help. She was far too stubborn for her own good, and admitting such a weakness would have required a level of trust that they simply did not share. Perhaps in time, she would trust him in such a manner that he could offer his assistance.

Or perhaps, he could slip into her dreams and offer to introduce her to his dearest friend. She had shown interest in the Fade and in the nature of spirits — she'd even gone so far as to express and interest in _meeting_ them.

What a curious creature she was, so unlike any Dalish he'd ever met.

But Wisdom had fled the Breach just as many other spirits had, and he had not heard from it since the explosion. And even if the spirit remained, the offering itself was far too familiar, too impulsive. The fact that he'd considered it in the first place unsettled him.

It did not take long until the dwarf was snoring quietly.

Solas thought that the elf had fallen asleep as well, until she rolled to face him. The firelight threw her into stark relief, and her dark eyes watched him until he put his book down into his lap and returned her gaze.

Her voice was hardly above a whisper, as she asked, “Will you tell me about the things you've seen in the Fade?”

It was like a key fitting into a lock.

Something opened in him, regardless of his own apprehensions, and he was suddenly and acutely aware of how long it had been since someone had shown such interest in what he had to say. He found himself regarding her warmly, as he asked, “What would you like to hear?”

Tephra grew thoughtful, before replying, “Something good. Something beautiful.”

Something to chase away her nightmares.

Solas put away his book and settled down onto his own sleeping roll, laying on his side to face her. Resting his head on his arm, he asked, “Have you ever been to the Tirashan?”

The Herald shifted to rest her head on her folded arms as she laid out on her stomach, and she shook her head in response.

His voice remained low and quiet as he told her of how she had the look of the elves who once lived there, which elicited a sleepy smile from her.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” he assured.

He diverted his attention from it, and spoke of the glowing glass spires and terraces that his people had built there, of the floating gardens filled with flora that no longer existed. Of trees that towered like giants, and structures built around them that housed elves beyond counting. He told her of the _U'vun'adahla_ , the Star-Trees, that grew in the deep dark heart of the Tirashan — trees pale as bone, whose fruit glimmered in the dark and inspired their name. And of the moths drawn to them — as large as ravens, all white with shimmering silver and blue patterns that flashed and pulsed with light. He told her of all of the goods things, not the civil wars or the destruction or the disease that befell the elves that dwelt there.

She regarded him with a sleepy, hopeful look, “Are they still in the Tirashan? The moths?”

“I cannot say with any certainty,” he replied, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

“I would like to see them, one day,” she mused. Her expression fell, briefly, before smoothing back out to the practiced mask she wore. She was staring at the Anchor on her hand, as she said, “I don't think I ever will, though. I don't think I will ever be anything but this.”

Guilt coiled in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed the odd lump that had been building in his throat, and asked, “Shall I continue?”

“Yes, please do,” she replied, and settled into a curl, knees drawn to her chest.

He kept talking until she drifted to sleep. It did not take long.

When her breaths slowed and deepened, he reached across to her and pressed his fingertips to her temple. He hoped she would forgive him such a small intrusion.

It was a simple enough spell to cast — which cost him nothing — to fill her dreams with a thousand fluttering, glowing moths.

 

———

 

The further they traveled into the Hinterlands, the more it descended into chaos.

Skirmishes between the templars and mages left cottages and farms ablaze, and corpses were left to rot where they fell in battle. With civilians fleeing theirs homes and their lands, there was none left to even afford them the dignity of a proper burial. With each group they came upon, they were thrown into the fray, as neither side relented, and any they encountered alone attacked them on sight.

It was a decidedly harrowing new experience for her; she'd never been in conflict such as this before. She had hunted bandits many times in her life, but that was a different animal altogether. Shooting from a distance while concealed and picking them off one at a time while they scrambled for cover — that was one thing.

But mages?

That was something else entirely.

Tephra had never fought mages before, never had to deal with all manners of fireballs and bolts of lightning and daggers of ice being thrown her way. If it wasn't for Solas's barrier spells, she reckoned she wouldn’t have lasted to see the second fight.

In their first encounter between a group of templars and mages, she'd been caught frozen up in awe at the incredible forces blasting across the battlefield. The sheer force of the spells barreling past her — forces of nature bent to deadly whim — left her breathless. More than once she'd been caught gaping like an idiot, much to the endless frustration of her companions. Varric made a running gag of it, much to the Seeker’s annoyance. And twice now Solas had swept her off her feet and out of the path of lethal magic, using some sort of non-lethal spell. The last time he'd done it, she'd been too preoccupied with shooting at a target without realizing a mage had targeted her. She'd been mid-draw, when suddenly it hit her and sent her tumbling through the air and landing in a rolling heap of tangled limbs and curses.

Her lack of confidence in survival against mages wasn’t so much as doubt in her own skills, as her arrows found her targets with deadly efficiency. She rarely missed a mark. It was simply that in the face magic, a bow did not have the same level of destructive capability. Even Varric had a more efficient drop-rate than her, given the sophistication of his crossbow.

It made her feel like a fumbling youth on her first hunt and it kept her racing along, just trying to keep up.

It was almost comical that she — a simple Dalish archer — was their so-called Herald of Andraste. Of anyone who could have received the damnable mark, it was _her —_ fumbling along, trying to not get killed.

By midday, she had a higher body count than the whole of her life. And yet, despite the horrible reality of being caught up in a civil war that had nothing to do with her, she had no time to stop and process any of it. And it did nothing to prepare her for what was to come next.

They were halfway to the Crossroads when they came upon a trio of Inquisition scouts hunkered down behind the charred ruins of a home, and surveying a battle below the hill. They were too outnumbered to intervene.

At their approach, one of the scouts jumped up from their place of concealment and called out, “Seeker Pentaghast! Thank the Maker! We must help them!”

“Oh, we _must_ ,” Varric griped, already weary of the fighting. “At this rate, we’ll reach the Crossroads by the next age.”

Tephra couldn't blame him — she was tired of it, as well. It all felt so pointless. Any meaning and justification, for either side, was lost in the face of endless death and destruction.

Down the hill, she could see a dozen or more templars fighting with a handful of mages. It seemed as though most of the mages had already been killed. Not far from the battle, a lone cabin had recently been set ablaze.

“They've shut the apostates inside and barred the doors and windows,” the scout continued, her voiced edged with a terrible urgency. The band on her arm marked her for a medic.

Tephra's stomach twisted with an immediate, visceral response, as she looked back at the cabin in horror. Before any of her companions could respond, she dug her heels into the horse beneath her. It all but leapt down the hill and into the fray.

They had no choice but to follow her.

 _Gods, what am I doing?_ The panicked thought flickered briefly through her mind.

She skirted the battle as her companions dismounted and joined the fight, and let her horse carry her as near to the burning cabin as it would go. When it began to shy and whinny in fear, she dismounted and let it retreat to safety. She ran the rest of distance on shaking legs.

The door had been crudely boarded shut, as well as the windows. Smoke had begun to pour out through the cracks between them.

For a moment, she did nothing but stare helplessly.

What could she do?

Her gaze swept the building for any possible way in, for any answer she might have overlooked, for—

Something.

_Anything._

And then she heard it.

There were screams coming from inside the house, made distant over the roar of the fire and the battle that raged behind her.

Frightened women, pleading at the door. And somewhere further inside, the cries of children. There was no moment of conscious decision, only the movement of her body propelled inexplicably to their terror.

Tephra discarded her bow and quiver, before tearing off her coat and throwing it aside. Her hands were shaking as she drew her dagger and moved to the closest window.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

She jabbed her dagger between the boards, and _wrenched_. It took three tries before the wood gave and cracked. She yanked the broken pieces from the frame of the window. As she pried a second board free, an arm shot out and grabbed at her in desperation.

“Hold on, I've almost got it,” she assured. Her voice came thin and high, and shaking almost as much as her hands were.

Tephra wrenched another board free and threw it aside. There was just enough space to pull the woman through. She was coughing fiercely as she tumbled through and into Tephra's arms, covered in soot and burns.

“ _Please,_ ” she rasped, as she sank to her knees, pulling Tephra with her. “I couldn't reach them.”

“I'll get them,” Tephra assured, as she disentangled herself from the woman's grip. Her voice had grown curiously calm. She shoved the woman away from the cabin, as she urged, “Get away from the fire.”

Tephra reholstered her dagger. She yanked her scarf up to cover the lower half of her face and knotted it tightly behind her head. The heat and smoke stung her eyes as she hoisted herself up into the window. Someone was shouting her name, but she paid it no heed as she climbed through and into the cabin.

She immediately dropped to the floor, to get beneath the thick layer of smoke that had filled the cabin. The glare of fire came from several directions, and the wooden floor beneath her blistered from the heat rolling off the flames. She strained her ears and followed the sound of the crying children. The air was becoming increasingly thin, and the smoke pressed down further with each passing moment, until she couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of her.

There was precious little time to waste in finding the children, before the cabin would come down on all of them — herself included.

She’d only just managed to scramble halfway through the cabin when something exploded against the outside walls and shook the entire structure. It sent her tumbling forward in a sprawl as a beam in the roof came crashing down. Smoldering ash and debris showered over her, and she barely had enough time to raise her arms to protect her face from the spray of hot ash.

Tephra rolled away from it, gagging and coughing and shaking off the burning cinders. Pain shot across her forearms, as she rolled too close to the fire atop the scorched floor, but the sensation was gone as soon as it came. She scrambled back onto her hands and knees, away from the burning beam and toward the sound of the crying children.

It guided her to the far corner of the cabin, where she found them huddled behind an overturned bed. It had been turned on its side and braced against the wall, as a makeshift barrier to protect them. Fire raged just beyond it, and had begun to ignite the mattress. A table blocked them in, having caught fire and fallen when one of the legs gave way.

Desperation set in as she kicked at the burning table, trying to knock it aside. It hardly budged an inch. She braced her hands against it to shove it away, but immediately pulled away from the sudden shock of pain.

It was too hot to touch.

Growing desperate, Tephra wedged herself between it and the wall. She brought her knees to her chest and braced her boots against the heavy table top, carefully avoiding the burning edges. It took all of her strength to push, to shove it further away, until there was enough space to reach the children.

She could barely make out their shapes as she counted. Three — four? No, five. Small hands clutched at her, as she shouted to the older ones, “Take hold of each other's hands!”

Tephra grabbed up the closest child, little enough to shove under her arm, and then she took hold of an older child's arm. “Don't let go of each other,” she shouted over the noise, coughing from the smoke stinging at her throat. “I'm gonna get you out of here, you just have to follow me.”

As they clasped hold of each other, she double checked, counting their faces. “Have you got a hold of each other?”

A chorus of nods was all that she needed.

“Stay close to me,” she urged, as she turned on her knees and began to lead them out and towards the window.

The fallen beam blocked her previous path, so she led them along the perimeter of the wall. The little one she'd scooped up clung to her, skinny arms tight around her neck, little legs gripping her chest. The child behind her held tight to her armor. The slight tug with each movement was a reassurance that they were still with her.

Moving on three limbs proved awkward and slow. She had to maneuver around furniture and debris that she could barely see, until she nearly collided face-first into them.

Minutes crawled by as she led the children along the walls, occasionally stopping to feel for the frame of the window. Panic and disorientation began to set in.

_Where the fuck is the window?_

She almost turned around in her disorientation, until she heard them shouting her name.

Tephra all but dragged the child behind her as she pulled herself to feet. She stumbled toward the voices, clutching the smaller one to her torso.

_Almost there_ .

Blinded and choking on the smoke, she pushed the child she carried out the window and into waiting arms. Next came the older two, which she shoved out the window rather unceremoniously. There wasn't time for gentleness. As she was lifting another small one and handing it through the window to the waiting hands, a sudden horrible realization hit her.

_Where was the fifth?_

Someone had a hold of her arm and was trying to pull her through the window, but she wrenched herself free.

There was still another child somewhere inside the cabin.

_Five, not four._

She was certain of it,  but there was no more crying to guide her path, only the roar of the fire around her and the distant shout of her companions.

Tephra dropped down into a crouch and began to backtrack.

The smoke pressed down further, thick and black, and nearly touching the floor. It was nearly impossible to see anything, even the fire. She could only feel the press of blistering heat against her face coming from all around her, making it difficult to feel out a safe path.

It frightened her, but fear was not an option.

Tephra followed the wall, coughing and straining to keep air in her lungs, feeling her way along in the darkness in a slow path back to where the children had hidden behind the bed.

_Five, not four_ . 

A little one, too. Why hadn't she picked him up? She could have at least tried to carry him. Hell, she could have dragged him along. She could have done something — _anything_.

An inexplicable anger rushed through her,  chased by a crushing  sense of guilt. 

Tephra felt her way along in the darkness, until she nearly tripped over a small body. She could barely make out his shape in the darkness as he lay on the floor.

He wasn't moving.

_Oh, no._

Her fingers trembled as she felt for him and lifted his limp body up into her arms. She turned back for the window, clutching his small body to her chest as she went. Her head was pounding, and she was dizzy from lack of oxygen. 

This one was so small in her arms, yet so terribly heavy.

_No, no, no._

She tipped sideways, nearly dropping him.

Something pushed against her side, and steadied her. She nearly dropped the child in surprise.

Was there someone else still in the cabin?

Tephra swept her free arm out, sitting back on her heels, feeling blindly in the smoke for another body, but there was nothing there. 

Had she imagined it? She was almost certain it felt like a  _hand_ .

There was no time left to investigate.

She pushed onward to the window and by the time she reached it, she could barely bring herself to stand. Her lungs were screaming for air, just as the people outside were screaming at her to get out.

Tephra held the child to her chest tightly as she hauled herself up into the window. More of the planks had been pulled away, clearing the way for her. Several sets of hands pried at her and hauled her out of the cabin. She landed on unsteady legs, and let herself be pulled away from the billowing smoke.

Someone was hitting at her back, and a coat was thrown over her as she stumbled further from the burning cabin. There was a clamor of arguing voices around her as she yanked it back off of herself. She was surrounded by her companions and the scouts, but they were nothing more than a flurry of anxious faces and bothersome limbs. Tephra pushed herself free of them, clutching the child, and stumbled further from the burning cabin. When she was at a safe distance from the fire, she crouched and lay the child on the grass.

He still wasn't moving. His eyes were open and unfocused, and he wasn't breathing.

Panic coursed through her, but her movements were steady as she rubbed her knuckles over his sternum. When he didn't stir, she positioned his head and then put her mouth over his and tried to breathe life back into him the way she'd been taught by the healers of her clan.

It had brought people back before. She'd seen it done before, and she had done it once herself.

She breathed into him again, and again.

_Please, let it—_

“Teph,” Varric said, gently. He was crouched at her side and had reached to pull her off the toddler, but his hand hovered at her shoulder without making contact.

She sat back on her heels, and let out a ragged breath.

The boy couldn't have been more than two summers old. Maybe three. His hair was matted around his face, as dark as the ash on his skin. His lips were blue. His eyes were unfocused and unseeing, but they bore into hers accusingly.

The smoke had killed him long before the fire could. It was little consolation that she’d pulled him out before the fire could take the rest of him.

Tephra gently pushed his eyelids closed.

Something terrible and ragged clutched at her chest. Around her, the others were speaking to her, but all she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

And then she saw him.

One of the templars had survived the skirmish.

His hands were bound with rope and he'd been left to sit near the corpses of his companions. He stared at her with a wide-eyed, hollow expression.

She was up on her feet and past the others before anyone could react. The halla bone dagger was in her hand in a flash and then she was on him, knocking him to the ground as she straddled him and stabbed him in the chest.

And kept stabbing.

He tried to block the blows, grabbing awkwardly at the dagger with bound hands and fumbling fingers, but it didn't matter as they were soon slick and red and could no longer grasp. She didn't hear his pleas for mercy, and kept stabbing long after he fell silent and still beneath her.

It was only then that they dragged her off of him.

She wrenched herself free of their hands, vibrating with fury.

Cassandra gave her a tight look, hands still hovering near as she said, “Herald, your arms...”

Tephra looked down at them, and it woke the pain in her.

The fingerless gloves she wore had done little to protect her hands, and in her panic to reach the children, she had foolishly ignored the scream of her nerves each time she touched or brushed against something burning. Long welts of raw burns and watery blisters had bloomed on her fingers and forearms. The medic moved to help her, and she felt Cassandra's hand at her back. She shrank away from the Seeker's touch and waved them away, as she made her way toward a small creek that ran beside the cabin.

She could not get the image of the boy's face out of her head.

Alive, then not alive.

Alive — wide-eyed and silent and tucked down against the corner with the others. How had she missed him? Then not alive — on the floor, not moving. Lost along the way when she'd led the children to safety.

He had been _right there_. Why hadn't she grabbed him up with the other little one?

Alive, then not alive.

It was too much.

Tephra sank to her knees in the shallow creek, trembling from the pain. Carefully, she submerged her arms into the water. The pain washed over her, but it was nothing compared to what raged inside her. Her whole body vibrated with pain and fury, and there was no name for the sound that left her. Only that it was as raw and ragged as the burns on her arms.

And then there was nothing after, but the stillness of ruin.

Solas stepped around her in the water, and crouched down.

It was simply instinct that Tephra pulled away when he reached for her arms. She had never been good at letting anyone help her, even wounded as she was.

 _Still so much a wild thing, even after all these years_ , she thought ruefully.

“Sathan, en ma halani,” he urged, gently.

His hands remained held out to her, patient and waiting; pale blue magic flared and danced from his open palms. Concern was etched deeply in his face, and it opened something in her.

Tephra relented, and let him take her by the arms. Healing magic washed over her skin as he gently braced his forearms beneath the length of hers, long fingers cupping her elbows.

The sudden cessation of pain elicited a gasp of relief from her, and she sank forward against him. Her forehead rested on his shoulder as he held her arms gently, letting the magic work through her and repair what damage he could.

“That was a reckless thing to do.” His voice was low, almost gentle in her ear.

“It was the only thing to do,” she replied defiantly, as she pulled herself back to sit on her heels.

He regarded her with a tight expression, “And no less reckless for it.”

Silence settled between them for a time as she watched his hands as they moved over her arms, hovering and never quite touching. The blue magic whispered through the wounds, dancing like fire that didn't burn. The magic dampened her nerves and lessened the damage, soothing the intensity of the burns, but it could only do so much until salves and bandages were applied.

“It's always the same,” she said, finally.

Solas did not look at her as he worked his magic over her, and asked, “What is?”

“Conflict,” she replied. “No matter the justifications of either side, it's always the children who pay the price. It's always the littlest ones who face the injustice, the suffering, the terror — alone.”

Solas looked up from his work to regard her with a suddenly intense expression.

Once again, she felt as if he was actually seeing her, not simply looking through her. It was an odd feeling. Was he even aware he _did_ that?

Looking at him, she could see that he wasn't without wounds, either. There was a large bruise blooming up from his cheekbone and blackening the underside of his left eye. She was surprised that one of the templars had managed to get close enough to him to do that.

Unsettled, she cleared her throat, which only prompted another series of ragged coughs. She could still feel the pain in her lungs from the smoke. “I need to be able to fight. Can you fix my hands?”

“Yes, but it will be unpleasant,” Solas replied, honestly.

“Many things are,” she said.

Solas drew his arms back, and held out his hand with the palm offered up. Tephra placed her marked hand into it, and he laid his other hand over hers.

He held her gaze as the magic ignited between his palms. She swallowed the sounds of agony that tried to claw their way out of her and kept her eyes trained on his, refusing to let herself submit to it. The eye contact was reassuring, and she didn't break it, even at the height of the pain.

When he released her hand, the blisters were gone.

Her other hand trembled when she laid it in his, in anticipation of the pain. He repeated the process efficiently. This time, her resolve broke and she relented to the pain, letting out a string of curses and gasping cries. By the time he was done, she was shaking, but her hands were were unburnt and shiny with new skin.

“Ma serannas, Solas,” she said, as she flexed her hands. The movements came easily, and without pain.

“ _Herald_.”

She was surprised by the sharpness in Solas's voice, and her eyes snapped up to meet his.

“If you die, we all die,” he said, in a grave tone. “You cannot save anyone if you throw yourself upon the pyre.”

Despite the hard set of his features, she was certain there was concern lurking there. Distress, even.

She surprised him with a wide smile, as she declared, “Then I won't die.”

Tephra stood, soaked from the waist down. She made her way back to the others as Solas followed after her.

The medic was looking over the woman she pulled from the cabin, as well as another who had survived the battle, both of whom were silent with shock. Upon her approach, though, both clutched at her as their words bled together in a frenzy of raw emotion as they tried to express their gratitude. Despite how uncomfortable it made her, she endured it.

Finally, she extricated herself, and went to speak with the medic. “Are they okay?”

She gave a stiff nod, “They got it the worst. That one you pulled out tried to get the door open until the fire forced her back. The other got it pretty bad from the templars. They'll live, though.”

“And the children?”

“Some minor burns, but mostly smoke sickness,” the scout replied. “It's hard to say yet. If their lungs last the night, I would say they'll live.”

Inevitably, her gaze was drawn back to the toddler. He was still where she left him in the grass.

“He was Marya's,” one of the women said, a great deal more composed than she had been before.

It took her considerable effort to look away from the boy, as she asked, “And where is she?”

The woman looked to the burning cabin and said nothing. She didn't need to.

“Then we will put her with him in the ground when the fire dies. They should be together,” Tephra replied.

Cassandra spoke up behind her, “This area is unstable and dangerous, Herald. We should not linger here.”

She turned to face the Seeker, and firmly insisted, “We're burying them.”

An inexplicable emotion crossed the woman's face, before she relented and sighed, “As you wish.”

“The cabin is still very much on fire. It will be hours before it dies out,” Solas observed.

Tephra followed his gaze to the cabin. She was surprised to see a jagged bloom of ice impaling the door. Had that been what caused the cabin to shake as it had?

“Then you should help it die faster,” she replied.

The apostate sighed, before moving toward the cabin.

Varric spoke up beside her, “You got a death wish or something, kid? _Shit_.”

She was still looking at the ice that had impaled the door of the cabin. “Did Solas do that?”

Varric gave a grim nod, “First time I've seen that guy lose his cool. He tried to blast down the door with that damned ice. The Seeker clocked him for it. He could've brought the whole cabin down on you. What was it he said after? Something like, “I am not known for making the wisest of decisions under duress,” or thereabouts.”

She watched as Solas began to cast freezing spells on the burning structure, and suppressed a smile. Jumping into the cabin may have not been her brightest idea, but it amused her to know that the lofty apostate wasn't above bad decision-making either.

When the medic was done tending to the children, she allowed the woman to apply salves and bandage her forearms. The burns had been rendered minor compared to what they'd been before, thanks to Solas. When the medic finished, she relocated her coat and weaponry. While she was tying up her hair, she realized that a portion of it had been burnt away on one side, leaving choppy, frayed clumps.

 _A small price for five lives_ , she thought, grimly.

It took less than an hour to dig the grave and retrieve the mother's body. They found her where she'd curled up against a wall near the bed, with her back to the fires that had claimed her.

Tephra asked the medic to swaddle the toddler in clean bandages. She could not do it herself.

The mother was placed into the grave first. Then the Seeker placed the boy on her chest, and adjusted her arms so that she was holding him.

Tephra resisted the urge to look away, and steeled her face. She reached for the closest companion to steady herself — she had thought Varric was still beside her, but she grasped Solas's arm instead. Her hand fisted in the fabric of his sleeve, holding on for ballast. He said nothing, and did not pull away. She was grateful for that, at least.

After a moment, she let go of him. She let out a slow breath, pushing away the emotions raging inside of her.

While the scouts worked to fill the grave, Tephra left to search the immediate area until she found what she was looking for. She uprooted a young sapling and brought it back to the gravesite.

It was something she needed to do, even if the others didn't understand.

Solas was blessedly silent about her actions, as well. If he had any criticisms about Dalish funeral rites, he kept them to himself. But as she finished planting the sapling, patting the soil down firmly, she caught him watching her with an expression that seemed almost approving.

“Ea revas,” she said quietly, as she finished packing the soil down around the base of the sapling.

“Ea revas,” Solas echoed, in a solemn tone.

They were free now, at least from the horror of war, which never seemed far away in this world. She hoped that they would find each other in the Beyond, if there truly was such a thing.

By the time the horses were relocated, the Seeker was organizing the scouts to escort the apostates and their children to the Crossroads.

“No,” Tephra said suddenly, surprising the Seeker as well as herself. “Send the scouts to the Inquisition camps. I want orders to evacuate all civilians and survivors and their children to Haven, or wherever else it is safe for them to go.”

The scouts looked between themselves, as one carefully said, “We cannot save every child—”

“You can _try_ ,” Tephra shot back, as she straightened and steadied herself.

“But, Herald—”

“Act as if they were your own,” she commanded. “Save all that you can. Even if there is no guarantee of a future for any of us, they _are_ the future. They are what lives on after us. If you would not throw yourself into the fire for them, then you can resign.”

The Seeker's tone was surprisingly gentle, as she said, “Herald—”

Frustration flared in her, as Tephra cut the woman off, “What is the fucking point of saving the world if I can't save them, too?”

Cassandra gave her a strained look, but kept her silence.

Tephra turned back to the scouts, and continued, “Go to the Inquisition camps and tell them to sweep the Hinterlands for all survivors. Especially the civilians — _especially_ the children. If any rebels surrender, then take them too. Take them all to the Crossroads, or on to Haven, under full guard.”

She had no idea what she was doing, but she needed to do _something_.

“As you command, Herald.”

The words twisted uneasily in her gut, but they settled at the sight of Cassandra giving her a measured look and the ghost of a smile. “And these survivors?”

Her gaze swept over them, and then to the scouts, before finally settling on her companions.

It was a curious realization, that they were all waiting on her command.

“We'll take them to the Crossroads ourselves,” she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been out of town for work recently, so that is why there has been some delay in updating. I have two more out-of-town work trips this month (last two weekends of November), but I will try to keep my updates as consistent as I can otherwise.
> 
> This chapter was difficult to write, on a number of levels. Writing Solas is a challenge, as I imagine at this point he was still very much withdrawn into himself, seeing himself as surrounded by Tranquil, by non-people whom he couldn't possibly relate to, so I am trying to reflect that in his POV sections. He is very much entrenched in himself, and needs prodding and provoking to get him moving towards the truth that he is in fact quite wrong. I'm not sure if my interpretation of him is quite right, though I suppose that is fairly subjective among fic writers in general. Any input on that, though, would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Also, when I stumbled across that cabin in the Hinterlands where the apostates had locked themselves inside for safety and the templars had set it on fire, I knew I had to write about that. 
> 
> Specific Elven used and credited to the work of FenxShiral:  
> Sathan, julasan ma halani. — Please, I will give you help.  
> Ea revas. — Be free.


	8. Things We Lost In The Fire, Pt. II

My heart is moved by all I cannot save:  
so much has been destroyed.  
I have to cast my lot with those  
who age after age, perversely,  
with no extraordinary power,  
reconstitute the world.

A passion to make, and make again  
where such un-making reigns.  
_—Adrienne Rich_

 

 

The damned elf had a death wish.

At every turn, she took a leaping headlong rush toward the Void.

It was a terribly mortal thing to do — to put aside oneself to save another. If he had known what she had intended to do, he would have stopped her long before she ever got close to the burning cabin. And she would have hated him for it; of that he was certain.

Yet, in that moment, between the scout's declaration, and whatever choice she made, nothing could have swayed her from that course. Nothing could have stopped her from going into that fire — and that perplexed him.

What did she care for the apostates? She was no mage, and arguably knew nothing of Circle politics. And yet, knowing nothing of them, she threw her own life aside to save theirs.

The Dalish were not known for intervening in the affairs of those outside their own — often even shirking all but those in their own clans. He had seen much of that indifference in his travels amongst the clans, before he gave up his fruitless attempts at connecting with them.

She hid well beneath her mask of indifference, well enough that it had fooled even him in the beginning. But she had reacted without hesitation, as though that level of empathy was purely instinct.

She had acted like a spirit of compassion.

_“It was the only thing to do.”_

She had challenged him to denounce her act of compassion, to tell her she'd been wrong. But how could he tell her otherwise, when he'd been so staggered by the level of empathy she had shown in preserving life? He would have praised her for it, had it not been the world itself that hovered on the brink. Her life was not hers to gamble away, not anymore, not even for such heroic acts. He'd told her as much, as gently as he could.

And her anger — she had been consumed by her rage as she fell upon the templar prisoner, like a spirit of vengeance. Even in that, had she asked, he would not been able to condemn her. He could only despair in that she'd been driven to it in the first place.

He had watched her bury them, watched as she gave Dalish funeral rites to those who weren’t even elven, let alone Dalish. He’d even shared in the words with her. And in her grief, she'd reached out to him and clasped his arm to steady herself.

It was beyond denying that he felt admiration for her, at this point, for her actions and for how she responded to the fate unfairly placed upon her. With each transgression against her, each freedom stripped from her, with each new horror she was confronted with, she held tight to a quiet dignity to make it right. And whatever the myriad motivations that brought people to the Inquisition, they worked as one to bring stability, to bring aid to the dispossessed, to the refugees. It was still a small force, and yet the potential was there to become something more.

_As she could be._

The notion came unbidden, and startled him.

The world, as it was now, was far diminished from the world he knew in his time. The absence of magic, of the Fade, made everything less — even the sight of it, to him, seemed desaturated and unremarkable. Hazy, even. Like walking through a nightmare. His only solace was in dreaming, in walking the Fade and watching the memories of how it was before the Veil was risen.

Very little in this world caught his attention beyond passing curiosities — beyond what was useful to further his plans. And yet—

Walking far ahead of him at the head of their procession, silent and burdened by the horror of war, she was a beacon. She was bright — brighter than all the rest. Yet surely that was a trick, a side-effect of bearing the Anchor. The magic made her more, gave her the illusion of almost being real. It was false, and he would be a fool to think any more of it.

And yet, he could not shake the nagging feeling that he could possibly be wrong. There was a part of him, however small, that hoped that he was.

How else could she be what she was in such a terrible world? How else could she increasingly make him feel as if he walked beside one of his own?

Solas could not help but wonder what she had been before she received the mark. Had she always been this? Driven by such caring, by such furious conviction? Or was the Anchor actively changing her?

It troubled him, either way. It cast doubt where he could not afford to keep it. His mission had no room for it.

It was nearly nightfall by the time they neared the Crossroads. Varric was singing a ridiculous song to distract the children from their grief; it worked insofar that they were no longer crying. The children and the two women had been seated on the horses, given their injuries. It had made the trek to the Crossroads more tedious than it should have been, but they still managed to reach the town in good time.

As they neared the outskirts, it became immediately clear that the town was under siege.

Tephra moved ahead, bow in hand, but the Seeker caught hold of her.

“You are too injured—”

The Herald rounded on the woman, as she insisted, “I can fight.”

Cassandra's hold on the elf's arm tightened; despite the layers of her coat and the bandaging, the pressure was enough to stir the pain of her burns. Yet the Herald did not cry out, stubbornly fighting the look of pain that crossed her face.

“I can fight,” Tephra repeated through clenched teeth.

She would not be swayed.

Cassandra held her gaze steadily for a long moment, before releasing her. “Very well. Stay with Solas and Varric, and keep your distance from the fighting. The cost of your death is a price we cannot afford to pay.”

“There's a war on, and you've made me your banner,” the Herald replied, her tone edged with dark humor. “Sure — I'll try not to die.”

The Seeker turned to the apostates on horseback, “Take the children back down the road, and wait for us to return when it is safe. Can you protect your own?”

The woman sitting on Varric's horse gave a stiff nod, “We'll manage.”

With that, Cassandra started down the road into the town. Tephra followed quickly behind her, bow drawn and ready.

“They're gonna get her killed,” Varric mused, suddenly at his side.

Solas turned to regard the dwarf.

“I've seen it too many times,” Varric continued. He shook his head as he huffed, “Humans and their martyrs.”

Solas unlatched his staff, as he replied, “Then we should endeavor to see that it does not happen, Master Tethras.”

“Agreed,” the dwarf quipped, as he started down the road towards the town.

Solas jogged to catch up with them.

The Seeker shouted back over her shoulder as she ran, “Inquisition forces! They're trying to protect the refugees!”

Varric called after her, pulling his crossbow free and readying it for battle, “Looks like they could use a hand!”

The center of the small town was a frenzy of templars and mages combating one another, with little disregard of who was caught in the crossfire. Residents assisted the Inquisition soldiers, armed with gardening tools and crude weapons. Cassandra barreled into the midst of it all, a righteous force of nature.

Thankfully, the Herald did not follow after the Seeker. She kept her word and stayed closed to him, as she loosed a furious hail of arrows on the rebel forces. Varric flanked her, matching her pace with ease.

Solas turned his attention to the mages. If he could perhaps turn them against the templars, appeal to them as an apostate—

“We are not templars,” Solas assured, as he called out to them. “We mean you no harm!”

His shout over the din was met with a sudden burst of crackling magic sent barreling against his barrier.

_Fenedhis._

“Doesn't look like they're listening,” Varric griped, before he leapt and rolled out of the way of a burning spell flung his way.

_Very well, then._

He loosed a burning torrent upon the mages. Their barriers held out briefly, almost admirably, before cracking and dissipating. Their screams were brief, as the fire consumed them. They were nothing more than hedge wizards — their inexperience was startlingly clear, and their deaths were pointless.

If only they would have listened.

He pushed the thought aside, and resumed his onslaught, targeting the templars rushing toward Cassandra. His staff spun in his hands as he struck at the air, sending brutal spells towards his targets.

Solas did not see the templar in his peripheral, until an armored fist slammed into the side of his head.

The blow sent him staggering, as he lost his grip on his staff. It fell uselessly to the ground at his feet. Dizziness and pain swelled over him as he bent to grasp at it, but the templar hoisted him back up by his jerkin, holding him hostage by the collar.

The man was reeling back for another strike when Tephra crashed into him. Solas stumbled free from the templar's grasp, watching as she smashed the butt of her dagger into the templar's face.

 _She is fond of that move_ , he noted, with some measure of amusement despite the pain pulsing in his head.

Tephra pulled back just enough to shift the dagger, before driving it up into the soft underside of the man's throat. The templar gurgled, reaching uselessly for his throat as she shoved him away from her. He stumbled back, falling to the ground in a dying heap.

She turned to face Solas as her eyes swept over him, checking for wounds. Her gaze snapped up to his, feral and bright with battle-fever, “You good?”

He gave a stiff nod, feeling at his temple with trembling fingers. They came back wet with blood. “I'll live,” he replied.

“If I have any say in it, you will,” she insisted.

Solas felt an odd thrill shiver through him, as he remembered her previous declaration. He could not help but smile, as he asked, “However you had to?”

She flashed him a sharp grin, “However I had to.”

With that, she was spinning away again and back into the clamor of the battle.

Dagger or bow, it mattered little. _S_ _he_ was the weapon. Darting between foes, a constant motion of wounding strikes.

The battle ended almost as quickly as they joined it. What remained of the templars fled outright, as more of the Inquisition's forces spilled into the town from the north.

Cassandra heaved a sigh of relief, lowering her shield and sword, “That's the end of it, then.”

Her concern turned immediately to the Herald, as she moved to look the elf over.

“I'm fine,” Tephra said, with some annoyance.

The Seeker nodded, and did not mask her relief. “Come, let us find Mother Giselle.”

Solas let out a slow breath, reaching again for his temple. His head was pounding. How long had it been since he'd been physically struck? He could not recall.

“You alright there, Chuckles?”

He turned to find the dwarf offering a scrap of clean cloth. Solas took it and pressed it to his bleeding temple, and said, “Quite.”

Varric gave a bark of laughter, “Always check your peripheral, elf. Templars fight dirty.”

“Indeed,” he agreed, annoyed with his own carelessness.

“They'll be a while,” Varric said, turning his gaze to their departing companions. He flashed Solas a grin, “Let's hit the pub.”

The prospect of alcohol was arguably inviting, and but he was drawn more to the sight of the wounded — civilians and Inquisition soldiers alike. Medics and Chantry sisters moved among them, tending to the most dire first, while calming the rest who waited to be seen to.

“I will join you shortly, Master Tethras. I believe my skills are needed presently,” he replied.

“Of course.” The dwarf flashed him an approving smile, before departing for the tavern.

As Solas moved toward a woman slumped down against a signpost, hands sparking with pale blue magic, his thoughts were drawn to the Herald. As he worked healing spells over the woman's wounds, he could not rid his mind of her words.

_“However I had to.”_   
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Tephra found Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in a makeshift infirmary. Whatever the building had been before, it was now crowded with cots filled with the wounded and the dying. Cassandra excused herself, and left her to speak with the woman alone.

She wasn't sure what to expect of the woman, given what little she knew of the Chantry beyond their condemnation of her as the so-called Herald of Andraste. But when the woman rose to meet her, she was met with a kind smile. Tephra felt herself relax, if only marginally.

“You must be the one they are calling “The Herald of Andraste”,” she mused.

Tephra could not help the discomfort that crossed her face as she replied, “Is that why you asked for me? The Chantry has already—”

“I know what they've done,” Mother Giselle interjected.

Tephra frowned, “Then why am I here?”

“I know of the Chantry's denouncement, and I am familiar with those behind it,” the woman replied. “I won't lie to you; some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine.”

That didn't surprise her. She was largely unfamiliar with human politics, but that particular motivation was a common theme among them. Power for power's sake, each clamoring for the highest peak of it. It turned her stomach.

“Some are simply terrified,” the woman continued. “So many good people were senselessly taken from us.”

The memory of the burning bodies at the Temple of Sacred Ashes flashed through her mind, twisted and frozen in their final moments of agony. Her stomach gave a brief, sick lurch. Her frown softened, as she said, “What happened was horrible.”

The woman continued, in a soothingly sure tone, “Fear makes us desperate, but hopefully not beyond reason. Go to them — convince the remaining clerics you are no demon to be feared. They have only heard frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

“That won't just make it worse?”

The woman's dark eyes searched hers, “Because you are not human?”

That had been the obvious reason, of course.

“That too,” Tephra admitted.

“Let me put it this way: You needn't convince them all. You just need some of them to doubt. Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them and you'll receive the time you need.”

Frustration flared in her. If they were anything like the one in Haven — Chancellor Roderick — then it would be a wasted endeavor. “So I show up, say hello, show them the mark on my hand? You honestly think that will be enough?”

The woman fixed her with a measured gaze, “I honestly don't know if you've been touched by fate or sent to help us, but, I _hope_. Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us — or, destroy us.”

_Herald._

The title meant nothing to her, and yet with each passing day its noose tightened further. It strangled out any hope of ever returning to her old life — any hope of ever being what she'd been before. Of ever being just herself — just Tephra.

All she was now was the mark on her hand, and how it could be used to further the purpose of other people's plans. And yet, she knew with a startling clarity that any and all failure would be hers alone.

Her stomach rolled and heaved at the prospect.

“I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana the names of those in the Chantry who will be amenable to a gathering. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can,” the woman continued on, despite her silence.

“The Inquisition thanks you for your support,” she replied, awkwardly parroting what she'd heard the Commander saying to those who came to join the organization.

The woman regarded her with a measured look, before reaching out to her. It took everything in her to not flinch away. Sister Giselle gently touched at her hair where it had been burnt short and blunt, just above her ear.

“I heard several of your wounded soldiers passing on word of what you did for those apostates and their children,” she said, quietly. “Telling tale of you throwing yourself into the fire for their sake.”

Tephra swallowed hard at the sudden lump in her throat, and thought only of the small boy she didn't save.

The woman's hand retreated as she said, “Fire can be destructive, it can devour us so thoroughly and reduce us to nothing but ash and charred remains — but it can also be sacred, it can be a means of rebirth. There are times when we must light signal fires to let others know that we are here — that we need help, to keep ourselves from being consumed alone in the dark. And there are times when we must become that fire, to guide the rest forward. You must become that signal fire for us, Herald. There is no other who can.”

There was nothing but the sick roll of her stomach, and the fluttering, anxious beat of her heart straining against the confines of her ribs. “I don't know if I can be that — for anyone,” she confessed.

“You must try,” Mother Giselle urged, in a gentle tone. The woman heaved a sigh, as though some weight she'd been carrying had been lifted. She regarded Tephra with a warm smile, “We will speak more later. You should rest. You have much to heal from.”

When she left the infirmary, Cassandra was waiting for her. The Seeker said nothing as they walked side by side.

“She agreed to help,” Tephra said, finally.

The Seeker relaxed, visibly. “Good.”

“I would like some time — alone. If I might.” Her words came tentatively, and unsure.

Cassandra put a hand to her shoulder, stopping them both and turning Tephra to face her. Her sharp features worked through a range of emotions, before she said, “What you did today — I am not angry. I am—” The woman gave a sharp exhale through her nose, as her words failed her.

Tephra shifted awkwardly, taken aback by the Seeker's sudden change in demeanor.

The woman regained her composure, as she continued, “Take all the time that you need, for now. We must speak later, but for now — your time is your own.”

She felt a sudden, intense appreciation for her. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

As Tephra turned to go, Cassandra pulled her back, and said, “Do not ever hesitate to ask for what you need, Herald. You may be our “banner”, but we are the many hands holding you up.”

The Seeker's words elicited a strange mesh of emotions that knotted deep in her stomach. She could do nothing but give a stiff nod. Cassandra patted her shoulder roughly, and sent her off with an almost gentle push.

She did not know where to go. It would be unwise to leave the town, though she feared the rebels far less than the Seeker's wrath, should she be a fool to betray her sudden goodwill. And the town was crowded with refugees and residents who spilled out from hiding after the fighting had ended — there was no place to go where she might be alone.

She opted for the next best thing, and headed for the tavern.

Inebriation was the next best thing to solitude.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Unlike in Haven, she had no say in the clearing out of the Crossroads tavern. It had been done well before she came into it, and despite her protests it remained closed to all but her and her companions for the night. Food supplies were low, but still they offered meals and alcohol without charge to them.

Tephra supposed it was fair payment for saving the town, yet still she felt some measure of guilt about it. People died, and now she was being plied with free mead. She turned the food away; the smell of it only further upset her stomach, which continued to churn with anxiety and grief.

Her companions had claimed a table, and sat talking in low voices over their meals. She'd opted for an oversized armchair by the fireplace, which sat with its back turned to the rest of the tavern, which afford some measure of solitude. It was the best she would be able to find in this crowded little town.

It practically engulfed her, and she'd sat for a long time with her knees drawn up and her hood pulled down low, nursing the large bottle of mead she'd been given. It warmed her, loosened the grip of her grief, but she knew that was temporary. The others left her alone to her thoughts, and she'd spent the time letting her mind turn over the events at the burning cabin as she stared into the fire, until it was too much to wallow in it any longer.

Tephra bent down to rummage in her pack that she'd left on the floor by the chair, and pulled out the small leather-bound book she kept in it along with an inkwell and pen. She settled back in the chair, as she turned past the most recent pages she'd written in, back just before the events at the Conclave. She had been documenting Ferelden flora that she'd been unfamiliar with during her journey through the unfamiliar country, jotting down notations and making botanical sketches.

She hadn't touched her pen since the start of all of this and it felt comforting to hold it in her hand again, as her hand hesitated over the blank page.

Tephra did not know what to do, only that she needed to do _something_.

Should she write of her grief? Put it to paper and then tear it away, throw it in the fire? It seemed futile — pointless. What would it serve to continue to wallow in such grief?

She turned her mind toward something good — something beautiful.

The nib of her pen scratched restlessly at the paper, swiftly putting to page the images in her mind.

Time ticked by as she focused on each line as she drew it, as she let her ragged emotions drain away through each measured mark on the page.

When she finished, she tore the page free. She rolled it tightly and tucked it into her coat pocket. She put her belongings away, and left to join her companions at the table.

The Seeker had been at the mead, as well. She was in the middle self-deprecating soliloquy.

“Did I do the right thing? What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered all my life. One day they might write about me as a traitor, a mad woman,” she ranted, before falling silent a moment. Her face was tight with doubt. “And they may be right.”

Tephra claimed the chair beside her, and asked, “What does your faith tell you?”

The dwarf and apostate were silent as the Seeker regarded Tephra, as though she were trying to gauge if she was being mocked or not. Finally, she said, “I believe you are innocent. I believe more is going on here than we can see. And I believe no one else cares to do anything about it.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Varric muttered, shaking his head and taking another drink from his bottle of mead. A large book sat open before him, as he wrote in a furious, tight scrawl. As if he were taking _notes_ of the conversation at hand.

Cassandra continued on as if she hadn't heard his interruption, “They will stand in the fire and complain that it is hot. But is this the Maker's will? I can only guess.”

“Mother Giselle agreed to help us,” Tephra replied, not wishing to speak of so-called divine interventions and machinations. She leaned across the table to claim an untouched bottle of mead. She ignored the sway in her movements as she sat back down in the chair heavily, and popped the cork. “So what happens now?”

“Now,” Cassandra started, heaving a sigh. “Now we deal with the Chantry's panic over you before they do even more harm. Then we close the Breach. We are the only ones who can. After that, we find out who is responsible for this chaos, and we end them.”

The Seeker toyed with her glass of mead, turning it between her hands with measured silence. “And if there are consequences to be paid for what I have done, I will pay them. I only pray the price is not too high,” she said, finally.

Tephra turned in her seat to regard the woman with a tight frown. The guilt in her voice pulled at her, forced her to consider how these events must have been for her — it sank heavy in the pit of her stomach, as she said, “You didn't have a choice.”

“Didn't I?” The Seeker smiled at that; it was a small, bitter thing. “My trainers always said: Cassandra, you are too brash. You must think before you act. I see what must be done, and I do it. I see no point in running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail. But I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I thought the answer was before me, clear as day.” The woman held her gaze a moment, before turning it down to the glass she held between her hands. “I can’t afford to be so careless again.”

Tephra felt the sudden odd urge to comfort the woman, yet knew any kind words would be met with harsh rebuttal. The Seeker was no less difficult when it came to softness than she was. Instead, she opted for appealing to the woman's sense of justice, of practicality. “It wasn't like you had no reason to suspect me,” she ventured, hoping the woman would not rebuke her small attempt at reassurance.

Cassandra met her gaze. Her face remained still, yet tight with an emotion that Tephra couldn't put a name to. “I was determined to have someone answer for what happened — _anyone_.”

The Seeker shifted in her seat, sitting straighter. It was as though something had been settled and put at ease in her. “It is clear that you do not believe you are chosen — by yours gods, or mine — but I suppose that no longer matters. I have to believe we were put on this path for a reason, even if you do not. Now it simply remains to see where it leads us.”

“Preferably somewhere not end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it,” Varric jested.

Cassandra gave a sharp huff, but there was amusement there which she quickly concealed by taking a long drink from her glass.

“Seeker,” Solas said, speaking up suddenly from where he sat beside Varric. “You initially believed our "Herald of Andraste" was involved in the attack on the Conclave, yes?”

“I did,” the Seeker conceded. “The evidence seemed damning, given the lack of an alternative.”

“Yet, you changed your mind,” he observed.

Tephra knew what he was doing. And he was doing it with far more skill than she had.

Cassandra gestured at him, “You also heard the voices at the temple — is it so surprising I listened to them?”

The apostate sighed, “Sadly, yes. Too few invested with authority possess the courage to alter their course. They fear the appearance of weakness.”

The Seeker drew up rigidly, chin raised as she declared, “The truth is more important than my reputation, and anyone willing to accuse me of weakness is welcome to try.”

“Well said,” Solas replied, with a small smile. As he filled his glass again, he said, “It is a comfort to have you present on our journey, Seeker.”

Cassandra frowned, as she stated, “You so rarely call me by my name, Solas. Why is that?”

That was true enough. He rarely called any of their companions or the advisers by name, opting instead for titles or even racial distinctions over given names.

And he'd never called her by name, not once.

Perhaps it was his way of keeping his distance, given his status as an apostate. Or perhaps it was something deeper than that, something far more complicated.

Casting a brief, sidelong glance at Solas, she was certain it was the latter.

Nothing about him ever proved less than complicated.

Solas quipped, “Manners, perhaps?”

“Manners have not held you back on other occasions,” Cassandra replied.

A snort left her before she could stop it. Tephra quickly busied herself with taking a long drink from the bottle of mead she'd claimed and avoided Solas's disapproving gaze. Varric flashed her a conspiratorial grin, tipping his mead at her in salute.

“I say what I believe to be true, even if it gives offense to those who prefer the lie,” Solas replied, sharply. His tone softened, slightly, as he said, “But there is no lie in what you are. Your position is an honorable one, and well-earned.”

The Seeker was clearly taken aback by his statement. Flustered, she cleared her throat, “Thank you, Solas.” After a moment, she hurried on from the subject of herself, and noted, “As it stands, we need to decide our next course of action. It would be wise to move on to Val Royeux, as we cannot put off dealing with the Chantry. And we must also decide on whether to approach the templars or the mages about sealing the Breach.”

“ _Not_ the templars,” Tephra interjected with sudden, wrenching certainty.

Cassandra fixed her with a measured gaze, as she asked, “Is that what you wish, Herald? Do you believe the mages will be cooperative, that their power will be what's needed to close the Breach?”

“What I believe? Why do you all ask me these things as though you expect I know what I'm doing? I know nothing of your Chantries and your templars and your wars, except that it is terrible for everyone else who finds themselves caught up in it.” She sat for a moment, frowning sharply, as the grief crept back in and soured to anger. “All I know is what I've experienced. The templars have done nothing to prove that they'd be a better choice.”

The Seeker frowned, “And what of the mages? Do you believe they are justified in their rebellion?”

“Solas would have a better opinion on that. I am no mage.” Tephra looked to Solas, but he said nothing.

_Damn him._

She was forced to consider her own position, with perilously little to go on.

What did she know of mages, except how they were taken by the Chantry, and forced to live in Circles? She didn't even know what a “Circle” was. She'd heard the passing tales of maltreatment, of what they did to the possessed and the uncooperative. Nothing she'd ever heard of it had been kind, or just. But what could she truly say of it, having only heard hearsay? She fumed, and frowned as she simply stated, “No one should have to live like that. They should be free.”

Cassandra snorted, and then downed the rest of her mead. She cast a sharp smile at Varric, and prompted, “What about you Varric? You knew a mage who wanted to be free. How did that go?”

The dark look that crossed Varric's face startled her. The Seeker remained unfazed.

“Not well,” he replied, after a tense moment. He stood, gathering up his book and his bottle of mead, and forced a cheery smile, “There's a clean bed upstairs with my name on it. I'll see you all at breakfast. Hopefully the subjects of conversation will have improved by then.”

With that, he left the table without a further word.

“That was perhaps—” Cassandra started to say, but then dropped the subject. She stood, and turned to Tephra, “This establishment doubles as an inn. They have graciously provided us with boarding for the night. You should retire soon — you need your rest. As do I.”

Tephra watched the Seeker leave.

What a curious, complicated relationship they had. She knew nothing of it, only that it reached far back, and was full of things she would probably never know of.

When she turned back to the table, she found that Solas had moved so that he was now sitting directly across from her.

Flustered, she said, “Thanks for the help on the subject of mages. I doubt I made a convincing argument.”

His eyebrow lifted, as he quipped, “Should I hold your hand and lead you through all of your discussions?”

Tephra flushed. He was clearly teasing her, yet it somehow made it worse. “I meant it. I know nothing of mages and what they face in this world, only what I've heard,” she griped.

“Then ask,” he said, simply. When she opened her mouth, he cut her off, as he continued, “Not of me, but of them. You saved two, today. Speak with them, listen to their stories. Ask others whose paths we cross.”

He was right — all mages might be apostates now, but many had lived in Circles. Solas had not. His opinion would have been as subjective as her own. Still, she couldn't help but snark back, “I will, when they're not blasting me in the face with magic.”

Solas laughed, low in his throat, “Fair enough.”

As she took another swig from the bottle of mead, he said, “You should eat something.”

She gestured at him with the bottle, “Does this not count?”

“Hardly.”

As far as she knew, he hadn't had anything to drink at all tonight. Come to think of it, she wasn't sure she'd seen him drink at all in the entirety of the time she'd known him. She quirked an eyebrow, as she asked, “Do you not drink, Solas?”

“When it suits me,” he replied, with amusement. He reached over the table and took the bottle from her hand. He proceeded to take a long, slow swig from it as if to prove his point, before he set it back down in front of her.

There was an odd, tight pull in the pit of her stomach, but she ignored it as she promptly turned to gesture at the waitress who stood idling across the tavern.

The woman hustled over, and Tephra said to her, “Another bottle of mead, if you would.”

“Of course, your Worship.”

 _That_ was new — and unsurprisingly worse than “Herald”.

As the waitress departed, Tephra gave a sharp huff, “For fuck's sake. It never ends.”

“And it never will.”

Was that agreement?

From _Solas?_

She turned to stare at him, and was met by his heavy gaze. There was something there that she couldn't begin to decipher.

“You will always be this to them — you will always be known as the Herald,” he said, in an apologetic tone.

The waitress returned with a bottle of mead and set it down in front of Solas. He thanked her quietly, as she ducked away and left them to their conversation, which had stalled into silence. Solas averted his gaze and busied himself with popping the cork off his bottle of mead.

Whatever his opinions of her were, her Dalishness and otherwise, there was empathy in his words. The smallest act of reaching out.

Cassandra's earlier statement echoed in her mind, as she said, “My name is Tephra.”

She knew that he knew it already — Varric used it when he wasn't amusing himself with the ridiculous nickname he'd given her. He'd certainly heard it. Before, she wouldn't have cared much for what any of them called her, least of all the elf who shunned her at every turn.

But something had shifted — something had changed — _was_ changing.

And yet, she couldn't begin to quantify it, let alone place certainty in it, as a part of her still expected the sudden jab of his criticisms, of his disavowal.

Solas offered her a small smile, “You would do well to remember that. As we all should.”

Still, he did not say it.

In a way, it was its own form of rejection.

She idly wondered why she cared that he hadn't — that he wouldn't. He was so often short with her, nearly insufferable. Why should she care at all?

And yet, he had been the first to stand up for her. He offered his knowledge freely, and encouraged her questions. And when her nightmares plagued her, he'd spent half the night spinning wondrous tales until she she fell asleep.

It had been the first time she had slept so peacefully, in a long time.

He'd kept her from certain death, and brought her back from the brink of it several times now. He chided her for her recklessness, and would not let her forget the gravity of her position. He made her look at the hard truths, when it was easier to look away, to dismiss them.

Was it any wonder that she was so often drawn to and equally repelled by the man? There was no predicting which side of him would greet her at any turn.

And yet still, there was something about him that drew her out, that made her feel as though she could tell him anything and that she would be met with his enthusiasm. Or—

She recalled his scathing tone when it came to the Dalish. Each time the subject had come up, his criticisms had sent her hurtling back into the center of herself, retreating back to safety.

As she remained lapsed in her thoughts and considering him with a measured gaze, Solas busied himself with catching up to her. The ease with which he downed the mead was rather surprising. He seemed hardly affected by it at all, while she was certain if she tried to stand that she would be immediately met with by the floor.

There was only one way of knowing if things had truly changed between them — if something in the tension had eased.

And if he scorned her again, then she never need come to him again with it, or anything that mattered to her.

She studied his face a long moment, before taking a deep drink of the mead. Almost too much — she coughed as it burned her throat. She steeled herself for the inevitable, and said, “I wanted to ask you something before. Back in Haven.”

Solas straightened in his chair, and leaned forward as he rested his elbows on the table. He locked his fingers, as he regarded her with sudden interest, “Of course.” He hesitated a moment, before he said, “I was, perhaps—”

“No matter,” she replied, quickly. She would not risk ruining this small chance by having him think he needed to apologize. He could do it later, if he wished. For now, she had one singular, burning interest — the truth. She swallowed hard, and asked, earnestly, “You walk the Fade — there must be so much you've seen. Do you know what happens to us, when we die? Is that where go, to the Fade? Or somewhere else?”

His eyebrows lifted, ever so slightly, in surprise. He recovered quickly, and said, “It is natural to be preoccupied with such questions after traumatic loss, such as today.”

Her gaze shifted, as she huffed in frustration at his non-answer. She wanted to chide him for his non-answer, but she would not risk spurning him.

She was certain that this — whatever this was — was a door that if shut once, would be shut forever.

Tephra met his gaze again, as she mused, “I always wondered if that's what spirits were. If they were us — just in another form.”

Solas looked — startled? Awed? Disapproving?

Whatever it was, it was gone quickly behind his well-schooled features.

She hoped that his silence wasn't what she'd feared — that she'd offended him in some way. She pressed onward, and asked, “Is that what we become, when we die?”

He spoke, finally, as he asked, “Is that what you fear?”

Tephra drew back in surprise, and frowned. Had she given that impression? “No, that's not it at all. It's just — it would give me hope.”

Her hand went to her sternum, to the shell that hung there, as she idly turned it between her fingers.

The gesture didn't escape his attention. His frown softened, as he inquired, “You've lost someone dear?”

“The dearest,” she replied softly, unable to stop the shaking exhale that left her. She turned her face away, features drawn tight as she struggled to push the emotions away. When her face finally calmed, she tucked the necklace beneath her shirt.

“I apologize,” Solas said, in an equally soft tone. “Such pertinent questions, and you hardly know me. Nearly every culture in Thedas, in some manner, believe that the souls of the deceased pass on into the Fade. At least for a time. After that, the opinions on the precise destination tends to vary.”

She turned back to him, “I'm not interested in opinions. Have you seen souls of the dead in the Fade, in your wanderings? Do you know for sure?”

Her preoccupation with the subject — her insistence on the truth — seemed to please him. “I have seen many things in the Fade; memories and echoes beyond count. I have also seen the brief crossings of souls through the Fade.”

“Through?” To _where?_ What could be beyond the Beyond? The Void? It was a horrible thought. And how long did they stay in the Fade? Could they linger without ever leaving? The questions clamored in her, as she stumbled through them, “How long do they linger there?”

“Some wink through like candle flame snuffed between two fingers. Others endure, for a time. I presume the younger ones pass through the quickest, as they tend to have less regrets to let go of. They all pass on, eventually. I have not seen where it is that they go.” Almost delicately, he added, “If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that we all return to the ether — to the primordial essence of the Fade.”

Her face fell. She knew that it did by the way his seemed to mirror it — as though he was disheartened to give her such a hard truth. She ignored the grief that swelled up in her belly, and rambled, “I read somewhere that a researcher in Orlais made a hypothesis that all magic is energy, and so are we. That everything is made of energy, that it all comes from the same source. Perhaps that is the ether — the Fade itself. Energy. And that when we die, it returns to it. So in a way, we always return to those we—” She swallowed at the hard lump building in the back of her throat, and diverted, “Well, it was always a comforting notion, to me. Or, that there is just... nothingness.”

“The Void,” he stated.

“Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls,” she parroted, remembering what little she knew of the human religion.

He smirked, and mused, “You did not strike me as an Andrastian, _Herald_.”

It was a teasing jibe, and curiously, it did not sting. She felt an odd warmth, and returned the smile, “My interest in the nature of souls spurred me to research beyond my own people's beliefs.”

The feeling did not last, as the weight of truth settled over her. Even if he did not know for sure, he knew reasonably more than most — and that meant that he was well and truly lost to her, as they all were.

She took another long drink, finishing the bottle of mead. Her head was swimming, and her stomach rolled with grief.

“It was stupid of me to ask,” Tephra said, quietly.

 _That_ elicited a disapproving frown from him.

“It is a decidedly natural and mortal concern to have,” he assured.

“I suppose nothingness isn't so terrible. You cannot miss anything when you are nothing, right?” She gave a sudden, amused smile, “Besides, it would be a far kinder fate than the old stories, the ones of how the Dread Wolf feasts on the souls of the dead.”

Solas stood, suddenly. The legs of his chair scraped noisily on the wooden floor.

_Shit._

She had been trying to toe the line of his patience, to keep her Dalishness from offending him, and now—

“ _Sathan_ ,” she pleaded, earnestly. She reached for him, briefly, before letting her hand fall back to the table, fisting against the wood at her own incompetence. “Please, I was just teasing.”

A shadow seemed to ripple across his face, before it grew still and calm. He sat slowly, almost stiffly, as he said, “There is much that the Dalish get wrong about such matters, especially as they cannot be bothered to free themselves of such ignorant folklore.”

“On that, we can agree,” she replied. “I'd rather find the truth of things than to accept what is simply told to me.”

She did not share in the religion of her fellow Dalish — certainly not the more absurd aspects of it. She believed in what could be touched, in what could be measured, in what could be quantified.

Besides, if the Elvhen gods had ever truly existed, why would they have let their people fall so low?

“For that, you are wiser than your people. Hold on to it. Nurture it,” he advised. “It would be a terribly sad day for all of Thedas if you were to ever lose it.”

The sweeping nature of his statement flustered her; she could not tell if he was complimenting her, or mocking her. She ignored the feeling, as she said, “Thank you.”

“For?” His tone had all the caution and distrust that she felt.

“For telling me the truth,” she replied. She hoped that he would believe her sincerity. “You could have spun a story to coddle me, or parroted what the others say. Even if the truth is that you don't really know. I appreciate the honesty.”

The warmth returned to his face, and she felt the tension in her body slip away. He eased forward, leaning on the table as he had before, and asked, “What other truths would you have of me?”

 _Oh, Creators_.

She needed more alcohol.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


The Herald of Andraste was well on her way through her second bottle of mead. Or was that her third? He wasn't quite certain.

“So are they like us? Do they have souls, or are they souls themselves — only without bodies? Is that we were before we were born, or did we come into being at birth?”

Solas could not help but delight in her rambling questions. There was a decided lack of stigma attached to her point of view, a lack of fear and superstition. It left her open, afforded her the willingness to ask such things.

And, honestly, he was delighting in the free mead a bit too much as well. He'd already surpassed her pace. It left him a bit too uneven, a bit too open.

“Spirits are... spirits,” he managed, and laughed when she laughed at his response.

“That is decidedly not an answer at all,” she chided.

He decided that he rather enjoyed her laughing far more than her wary frowns. He would have to endeavor to elicit them more often, if he could.

“Do you know what's strange?”

“Many things?” he offered.

She flashed him a brief look of exasperation, before musing, “I didn't feel it at all — the fire. It burned me, and I felt nothing. That's strange, isn't it?”

It was, indeed, strange — yet even as he began to consider it, his thoughts were dragged back to that burning cabin, back to the sight of her disappearing inside of it and once again throwing his plans into utter chaos.

He remembered having a hold of her, the first time she returned to the window, after she'd pushed the children out. He'd been afraid to pull too hard because of the burns on her arms, but then she'd wrenched herself free of him and disappeared back inside. If he could have wedged himself through the small opening in the boarded-up window, he would have. And he couldn't risk magic again; his first attempt had brought half the cabin down on her. He was certain at least some of her burns were because of him.

When she reappeared again, he let go of whatever breath he'd been holding and pulled her free. Burning fabric had clung to her armor and a portion of her hair had been on fire. The Seeker threw her own coat over her, and they worked in unison to beat away the flames. He could do nothing as she pushed herself free, as she cradled the dead boy to her chest.

He had watched her futile attempts to breathe life back into him, and then after, as she killed the templar.

She'd nearly died. She had been willing to throw her life away for a handful of children, on the small hope of their survival, and it staggered him.

He was suddenly aware of his own silence. He cleared his throat, and replied, “People are capable of remarkable things in times of extreme duress, with or without magic. Even ordinary people.”

“Are you saying that I'm ordinary?” A small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

“Not even if you tried, I fear,” he replied, with amusement.

She lapsed back into seriousness, as she said, “When I was inside the cabin, there was—” She struggled to put whatever she meant to say to words. Confusion and grief warred across her face, as her gaze dropped to where her hands curled around the glass bottle between them.

He was struck by the sudden, acute need to comfort her, to assuage her guilt.

“You saved six people today. And more here, as well,” he stated, firmly. “You should take comfort in that.”

“I didn't save him, though. Or his mother.” She turned those horribly real eyes on him — dark and drowning in the tides of her grief. Old pain and new pain, miring together in those dark depths.

“He was right there, and I left him. I told them to hold onto each other and I was so sure they had him, but I couldn't save him any more than I could have saved—” Tephra stopped herself, and lapsed into an aching silence. Her eyebrows knitted together as she struggled to keep the grief from her face.

Impulsiveness seized him, as he asked, “Is that why you asked, before?”

The look she gave him was answer enough.

Solas reached across the table, reached for her hand, to take it into his own, to — what? Comfort her?

He hesitated, hand hovering awkwardly as she stared at it with an unfathomable expression. He withdrew stiffly, as he aborted his useless gesture of empathy.

She could have saved all of Thedas itself, and that one little boy would still haunt her.

That truth clutched curiously at him, and compelled him to say, “You cannot save them all. You _must_ remember that.”

She frowned, sharply, as she insisted, “I won't lose anyone else.”

Still so defiant.

He gave her a small, tight smile, “I hope that remains so, for your sake.”

“Have you seen much of war? Of death?”

“More than I care to admit,” he replied.

“I've never... seen war,” she confessed, as if it were some terrible crime. "I've never seen anything like this before."

Of all the things in the world to be ignorant of — to be ignorant of war was perhaps one of the kinder ones. He despaired that she had to be thrust so violently into it, with no warning, with no preparation.

“And now you've been thrown headfirst into it,” he mused, darkly.

She fixed him with a haunted expression, and asked, “Does it get any easier?”

“No.”

She lapsed into silence again, and reached for Cassandra's bottle of mead that had been left half-drunk. She drank from it deeply, and he could only wonder at how she'd remained so well-spoken despite her obvious inebriation.

Tephra met his gaze again, as she said, “I keep trying to hold on to some vision of a world where I can see myself existing after all of this. A world where this—” She held up her marked hand, to punctuate her point. “—didn't end with death, or martyrdom.”

Guilt twisted sharply in his gut, and Solas shifted back in his chair, retreating from the truth of her words.

“Do you know what this feels like?” She flexed the hand until it crackled and sparked. “It feels like time running out. I can feel it in my bones, and I don't want to find out what happens after the last grain of sand falls.”

He could do nothing, say nothing, but accept the terrible weight of her words — of her fears. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't have been a lie. He drank deeply, letting the burn of alcohol in his throat distract him from the guilt burning in his gut.

“I'm so angry, all the time. That I have to be _this_ for them — for these people, the Chantry, for all who ever had a hand in destroying us. Generations of us — eaten up, and spat out. Our history — all that we were, or could have ever been — stolen, and erased. All the way back to Elvhenan.”

A part of him wished to flee. It was too much to face the ugly truth of it, to have to hear it spilling from the mouth of one so mortal and fleeting, of one so robbed of all that she could have ever been.

“There are legacies and histories inside of me, carried in my blood, in yours — _ours_. Beating out a eulogy in us even as we struggle to live — to survive.”

Her need to claim him as one of her own burned through him. His hand fisted on his thigh, and he continued to drink as she spoke — not once taking his eyes from hers.

She was owed this. It was the least he could give her.

“Our people live on the margins, struggling and fighting to even remain there, and how much time do we even have left anymore? Even if we close the Breach?”

Not enough, not by far.

There was more guilt, twisting deep.

How could she be so attuned to the vast suffering of this world? She was too small, not even whole, and yet—

“Time,” she mused, with a sharp, bitter laugh. She took another deep swallow of mead, and continued, “Isn't it terrible? We long for what was, but the ancients were no better than we are. They had the gift of time — of endless life — and still they did horrible things to each other, still killed each other over petty things. And now we have so little time in this world.”

Her face twisted, briefly, with an old sadness.

“You'd think it would make us kinder to each other,” she remarked, as she pushed away her grief. Still, its remnants remained, despite her efforts.

He nearly choked on the mead for the sore lump that was forming in his throat.

“Not all of the ancients were terrible, surely.” The words left him half-choked, and raw. “Some may yet remain.”

She regarded him with a sharp, bitter look. “If there are, they are very good at hiding and do not care for us.”

He said nothing further, as she spoke the truth he could not.

There were those of his kind that yet lingered, and they truly did not care for this world nor their quickling descendants.

“It's so hard to imagine that, sometimes. Immortality.”

Her face softened with thoughtfulness, and he knew that whatever she imagined did not hold a spark to the true flames of the old world. A part of him ached to show it to her — to give her what she deserved.

“And now we are like everyone else — terribly mortal, and born into a world of constant change,” she said, her tone falling softly to that quiet grief that dwelled in her. “Everything around us and inside us decays, and dies. And now there's a hole in the sky. If ever there was a time to appreciate the beauty and urgency of a mortal life, I would say it was now.”

She raised the reclaimed bottle in a mock salute, and downed the last of Cassandra's mead. She set it down again with an audible clank, and sank back into her chair. She sighed, deeply, and said, “Apologies, I've drunk far too much. And the spin is rooming a bit.”

She frowned at her verbal fumble, and then gave sudden laugh as she realized what she'd said, and he could have—

Could have _what?_

A dangerous thought.

He shoved it aside, and banished it from his mind.

He wanted her to stop talking. He wanted her to never stop.

There was such a startling clarity in her words, a wisdom that surely did not belong to her — how could it possibly belong to her? — and it was a torment to him to hear it.

For all he disdained the Dalish for, it was _his_ fault that they were what they were. That she was what she was.

If _this_ was what she was diminished, as a shadow of what she should have been — what terrible wonder would she have been whole?

It stole his breath to consider it, and anchored him with a guilt that threatened to drown him.

He looked at her — truly _looked._

She stared back at him quietly, as she frowned at his continued silence.

_Seeing._

Far too real.

The urge to flee intensified, as though she could unmask him at any moment.

“Sometimes, when you look at me, it's like you're looking _through_ me,” she stated. “It's the same with the others, too. As though we're not quite real to you.”

Her words tore through him, and shook him to his core. Anxiety flared and raced through his body, chased by an almost euphoric _rightness_.

She spoke like a prophet, if there ever truly was such a thing. For a moment, he could believe it, as she spoke his terrible truths with absolute conviction.

Even if she couldn't begin to comprehend the full truth of it, she saw _him_.

Tephra reached across the table and took hold of his chin, tipping his face up just so, so that his eyes met hers directly.

His skin burned where her fingers pressed against him.

“See? I'm right here. I'm a person. I'm not just a thing. Not just—” Her hand retreated just enough so that she could flash her palm at him. The Anchor glimmered softly, as his own magic sang back to him. “— _this_.”

She retreated back into her chair, lapsing into measured silence as she watched him for however he meant to respond.

His pulse pounded in his ears.

He considered, briefly, running.

Yet he could only remain there where he sat, stiff and cornered, and consider, and reconsider, and _doubt_.

Had he been wrong? About her, about all of them? Had he—

“Why didn't you heal yourself?”

Some time had passed, he was certain of it, though Solas wasn't sure how much. She'd waited until her patience gave out, and her question pulled him out of the spinning torrent of questions in his head.

Solas cleared his throat, as he stumbled over his tongue to answer her, “My energies were better spent on your wounds, and those of the ones you saved.” He gestured at his face, “This will heal well enough on its own, and in the meantime serve as a reminder to not act so impulsively.”

“Yes, in the future, if I happen to be inside of something burning, I would appreciate if you would not bring the roof down on me,” she teased.

The lilting tone of her taunt did a terrible thing to him, and set his stomach rolling.

Tephra shifted where she sat and bent to pick up her traveling pack from the floor. She placed it on the table and began to rummage through it, before finally producing a small jar. She stood suddenly and made her way around the table towards him.

His pulse spiked again, and began to race furiously at her approach. His jaw tightened as he watched her open the jar and run her forefinger over the healing balm contained within. She set the jar down, before moving to stand beside him.

When she reached for his face, she hesitated, and asked, “May I?”

His stomach rolled and heaved, tight with apprehension. He nodded stiffly, and braced himself.

Tephra took hold of his jaw with one hand, and applied the balm with the other. She leaned over him as she worked the substance into his cheekbone — the area was tender, but it was nothing compared to the sensations elicited by her touch.

It had been, perhaps, far too long since someone had touched him, let alone touched him in such a gentle manner. He could not help the way his body relaxed beneath her touch, under the careful ministrations of her fingers as she applied the healing balm, her fingertips working slow, steady circles into his flesh.

He had gone, perhaps, far too long without physical contact.

It had been especially prudent to avoid such complications when the mantle of Dread Wolf had been placed upon him. More so, when most began to regard him as a god. No matter his attempts to dissuade his people from such myth-making, he could not deny the imbalance of power it placed between him and everyone else.

After that, he had never been seen for who he was, not truly. Not as Solas; not as simply himself. When prospective lovers presented themselves after that, there was never truly any way of knowing their intent, let alone if their consent came entirely without coercion.

Even the casual touches of his comrades — friends he'd known through many skirmishes and conflicts through the ages — came to a stop as fear and awe set in. Even they had not been exempt from the sudden shift in perspective.

He had never disliked solitude, until then — when it became no longer a choice, but an exile. He had never truly known loneliness, until then.

How long had it been? He could not remember the last time someone touched him, so simply and willingly and without ulterior motive. The shock of it thundered across his nerves, fast and without warning; he found himself holding his breath and braced for impact.

He found himself utterly and absolutely unprepared for it — for the implications of touching, and being touched.

Solas forced himself to push his focus elsewhere, to settle his attention on something unremarkable — _anything_ — to slow his pulse and still the clamor occurring deep inside of him. It quickly resulted in failure, as his gaze simply shifted to watch her small hands at work as she let go of him briefly to get more of the balm. As he watched her lift jar and claim more of the balm on her fingertips, he couldn't help but notice that they were curiously stained with ink.

Had she been  _writing?_

That was a curious notion,  given that most Dalish were illiterate.  A nd yet her rambling, drunken soliloquy  belied any notion of an uneducated mind.  It only spurred more questions that crowded about inside of him — who taught you? who did you lose? what  _are_ you? — and ached to be asked. 

She returned to take hold of him, and began to apply the balm to his temple.

 _That_ elicited a hiss of pain from him.

“You really should heal this before it scars,” she chided, as her fingers began to circle his temple gently.

The repetitive gesture was infinitely soothing, and in that moment, he couldn’t care less whether it scarred or not.

His focus wavered and shifted to her eyes, as her face was unnervingly close to his as she worked and he could not help but be drawn in by them. Her eyes were so dark that the pupils spilled disconcertingly into the irises, which often made her expressions unfathomable; dark waters hiding a riptide.

This close, he could see the subtle shift in shade between her pupils and irises. They were not truly black — their hue more nuanced, ribbons of darkness that caught hints of steel and obsidian in the right light.

“That should do for now,” she said, pulling back to survey her work. She nodded to herself and went to pack away her balm.

Solas's eyes fluttered shut, briefly, and he swallowed the knot building in his throat.

It was possible — likely, even — that he was drunk. Perhaps it had put him at a disadvantage, thrown him off guard. Made him susceptible to being fooled by a very lifelike construct. Perhaps—

_Foolish old man._

When he opened them again, he saw that Tephra was hoisting her pack on her back.

She was leaving, and taking her wonderful mind with her, and all of her fascinating questions and terrible truths.

He wanted to protest, to entreat her to stay and to continue shattering his previous convictions of her, and possibly the world itself.

Any regard for the danger of what that could bring had gone out the window the moment she'd spoken those unavoidable truths — and the moment she'd touched his face.

Something had inevitably, irrevocably changed.

He would never be able to regard her as the same — as less. With each new declaration, with each stolen moment of discussion, she would become more.

And he could do nothing to stop, or deny it.

She worried at her coat, checking the pockets with the fumbling grace of one who'd had far too much alcohol for her own good, and suddenly produced a bit of rolled-up parchment from her pocket.

“I have something for you,” she said. That impish smile returned to her face, as if she held a secret.

Clearly, it was whatever that bit of paper was.

Still, he indulged her. “Oh?”

Tephra held it out to him almost tentatively, and did not quite meet his gaze. “For the stories, the other night.”

Impulsively, he made a point of letting his hand brush hers as he took it. It would seem entirely accidental, of course, yet he couldn't help himself.

The touch of her skin burned against his as he retreated and unfurled the paper. His eyes were met with precise strokes and hatching in fine, minuscule detail which depicted two white trees made stark against the black ink, with a flurry of white moths fluttering between them.

“I've probably got it all wrong,” she said quickly. “But I thought perhaps you might like it.”

Solas felt a curious swell of emotion in his gut, and a deep longing for the world that was. For what she could have been. For what she would never see.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers with a tight smile, “It is wonderfully done, Tephra. Thank you.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in a sudden, sharp expression, before her face lit up with a smile. She averted her gaze quickly, as though she were overcome, and fumbled to distract herself from it as she said, “Well, I should go and do that whole rest thing that Cassandra has been on about. I would hate to provoke her, when we're finally getting on well.”

“You do need your rest,” he agreed.

It would be selfish of him to keep her there, talking with him all night. She had an obligation that was far bigger than what ever _this_ was, no matter how much he would have liked to keep provoking her into rambling declarations and startling truths.

“Goodnight, Solas.”

“Rest well, Herald,” he replied, forcing himself to step back inwardly. To let go of the crashing swell of his emotions — at least for the moment.

His eyes dropped to the parchment in his hands, to the moths she'd managed to capture in striking detail. She had recalled the dreams he'd conjured for her with perfect clarity.

He did not watch her go; it would have been too easy to call her back. And yet after a long, stalled moment, he inevitably looked back up after her.

Tephra was nearing the top of the stairs when she cast another look back to him, and stopped briefly.

Her gaze burned right through him.

It was too canny, too perceptive — too _aware_. And there was something there that he could not begin to fathom, or put words. It elicited something small and dangerous in him, something a bit like hope.

And then she ducked out of sight onto the second floor of the building, leaving Solas where he sat at the table with an odd feeling budding sharply inside of him.

In a world full of sleeping Tranquil, she was wide awake — and he had her full attention.

And he couldn't deny that his attention, in turn, had been awakened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should learn how to write shorter chapters, but I really can't. Any chapter (like this) titled as “Pt. II” pretty much means the previous chapter ran on way too freaking long and resulted in being split in two. It is, perhaps, possible that I write too much. Also, apologies for the scenes that use sizable chunks of game dialogue, but I'm trying to at least keep in the most important bits. I am quite pleased with this chapter, and I hope you all are too. I hastily edited this to finish it before I leave on a work trip, so apologies if I missed any glaring typos. I'll double check when I get back in a few days.
> 
> Also, thank you to all those who have left reviews/kudos. I am pleased to know someone's enjoying reading this as much as I am in writing it, and it really motivates me to keep up a good pace. 
> 
> Specific Elven used and credited to the work of FenxShiral:  
> Sathan. — Please.


	9. The Man On The Island

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic soundtrack: [Vol. 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_64FrNskpWk&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlEiHb4wIaq_WtRY3dtcPUt) (Covers Chapters 8―11)

I shiver,  
thinking how easy it is to be totally wrong about people,  
to see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole.  
_—Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall_

But see—  
it’s easier to deny reality,  
to linger in the dream,  
to pretend, to observe.  
_—Inga Ābele, High Tide_

 

 

Solas was awake long before the others, though he'd hardly slept at all.

The innkeeper had given him a room to share with the dwarf for the night. Separate cots, thankfully, and it had been sufficient — if a bit springy. Yet he’d been incapable of settling his mind and had lain awake, tense and restless and listening to the dwarf's snoring as he grappled with Lavellan's words, until he fiinally gave up any pretense of sleeping. None had seen him take his leave. He sought refuge on the edge of town, hoping that the stillness and chill of predawn would afford him a modicum of peace.

Yet it was no better here, out in the woods on the outskirts of the Crossroads with the sharp chill air filling his lungs, than it had been back in bed at the tavern. The rambling mess of her words — her observations, her declarations, her fears — continued to turn and wrestle in his mind.

The clarity of her perspective startled him; he had not expected it, nor had he been prepared for it. It had been his mistake, in expecting so little of her in the beginning. Of that much, he was certain of now, as after each provoking conversation he found himself continually surprised and thrown off-balance by her. It pleased him more than he cared to admit.

And her _fury_ —

For her people. For her own plight. For what was lost.

He had seen her past, if only at an incoherent glance. Had seen the implications of all that she had lost, and continued to lose. Her family, her people, her identity, her _potential_ — all that she knew or ever held dear, taken from her.

And yet, there was no defeat in her. The world could've swallowed all the light in her and she would still be full of fire, and fight.

_“I'm so angry, all the time.”_

It had left him all but mute as she carried on the night before, seemingly oblivious to the effects her statements had on him, as she laid out his transgressions in a neat little row before him.

Of course, she could not have known the significance of it — could not have known she was addressing the person responsible for much that she raged against, and sorrowed for. He had made a crucial mistake in inviting it in the first place, and it had been entirely masochistic of him to stay and listen. What did it serve, but to reignite his grief and his guilt? Or worse, to shake his foundations, to threaten his resolve — to make him _doubt._

And yet, he found himself wanting to return to her, like a penitent prostrating oneself to their potential redeemer. To further provoke her and to hear her lay out the charges of his crimes, and to be held accountable for them.

It was a particularly self-destructive desire.

Perhaps she would understand; perhaps she had the capacity to. And in that, perhaps he could find understanding and forgiveness for what he'd done — and for what he still must do. Or would she deny him that? Forsake him, as all the rest had?

 _Only a fool could hope to be forgiven for destroying the world,_ he mused, darkly.

Or perhaps this was his punishment.

To see the potential, to see what was lost, to see what she could have been — and all of it thieved away by his arrogance, by his own hand. To feel an affinity with her, to feel the sudden shock of being connected to another person, to be known and to be understood. To meet this young, vibrant, emergent spirit — to watch her wither and die a slow, lingering death, and to know that it was entirely his fault.

_“Generations of us.”_

All that they had been, or could have ever been, destroyed by an act of desperation meant to save, which in the end had only doomed them all.

_“All the way back to Elvhenan.”_

The truth of it left a knot in his throat that he could neither express, nor undo.

That is how the agent found him — leaning heavily on a tree, as though the weight of the world bore down on him.

The elf bowed his head deferentially as he approached Solas, before producing a small object from his sleeve.

It was a scroll case. Small, made of unadorned wood, and entirely unassuming.

“The report on Lavellan, sir.”

Such a small thing, yet it felt curiously heavy in his hand as he took it.

“Ma serannas, Kazem,” Solas replied, as he tucked the report into an interior pocket in his jerkin. He ignored the odd tremble in his hands as he moved to clasp them behind his back.

The agent idled, before asking, “Did you have further instructions?”

Solas regarded the elf with a brief, sharp glance.

Kazem was one of his most competent and efficient agents. He’d risen to that particular position when Felassan had unfortunately vacated it. He had easily infiltrated among the ranks of the Inquisition recruits on merit alone. And he’d been among the reinforcements that had arrived toward the end of the fighting in the Crossroads the previous day, assigned to one of the many squads that were working to establish Inquisition camps and outposts in the Hinterlands.

“Continue as you've been instructed, for the time being,” Solas replied. “Assist the Inquisition, and do not draw undue attention to yourself.”

The agent ducked his head again, before departing. Kazem’s demeanor was surprisingly more sober than it generally was, and showed none of his usual irreverent sense of humor.

Then of course, with much of the Hinterlands thrown into chaos and bodies rotting at every turn, he imagined few could maintain their sense of humor.

Idly, his hand was drawn to the lump in his jerkin where the scroll rested.

He was  not surprised by how quickly his agents had gathered the information,  given how many of his own hailed from his time and were dreamers, such as he was. Few of the mortal elves he’d recruited were, given the rarity of the ability among those born in the Veiled world. The ability itself had nearly become extinct, and even the most talented of mages in this age still lacked the ability to dream lucidly, or with any control over their dreams. Of those he did find, most had been to frightened when he’d approached them in the Fade to be recruited. Still, those of his own and the mortal dreamers he’d recruited were stationed strategically across Thedas to best be utilized and pass information among the various  enclaves of his people.  Information could be relayed much more quickly from one dreamer to the next, and then passed onward until finally reaching him.  Until he could reclaim the Eluvian network, it was his most effective means of receiving information and dispensing orders. If pressed, he could contact individual agents himself through dreaming, but he reserved that for more exigent circumstances.

It was difficult to resist the urge to slip back into the Fade, as often as he could, to find a reprieve from this strange world he’d awakened to. He knew much of this era  — its politics and customs, strifes and conflicts — but it was all secondhand knowledge, viewed through the lens of dreaming. The personal biases of mortals often made parsing the truths of their dreams rather difficult, and even the most practical assumptions he’d made of the world before he woke fell vastly short of the reality. 

He'd caught glimpses and fragments of memories of the world as he slumbered in the millennia after raising the Veil. At first, the dreams came to him bright and shining with the hopes and aspirations of his people, newly-freed from the tyranny of the would-be gods. But soon, the nightmares came on a tide of confusion and anger, a panicked fear that clawed at him despite his inability to wake. Just as he'd imprisoned the evanuris, he found himself in a prison of his own making, if only temporary in comparison to their eternal torment.

In time, he learned the truth of it, as the memories came to him and as he conversed with those he met in the dreaming. Of the fall of Elvhenan, of all the great cities and wonders of his people that began to crumble without magic, and to political upheaval, and to invasions. And worst of all, the unavoidable truth of the true extent of the severance of his people from the Fade — of their quickening into mortal beings. Dying in numbers as they never had before, with fewer in each following generation. Dwindling and dying in subjugation. By the time he'd awakened, what remained of the elves were only shadows of what came before, hardly recognizable as kin in their ignorance.

In uthenera, he'd gathered many agents through the dreaming, and through them had begun to set in motion what needed to be done to further his intention to bring down the Veil upon his waking. Many of his agents did not know him directly, not even by face, and many were still extricating themselves from the myths they grew up on of the Dread Wolf. They were eager enough to serve his plans, though, to reclaim the world that was — the desire for a better world helped them to overcome their initial fears and superstitions. Yet still, they frightened easily, even when he came to their dreams as he presented himself now — in simple attire, without the pretense of power.

In another world, he had been uncomfortable with the veneration that came from those who followed him. He had never wanted that, only their freedom.

In this world, he was met with that same awe, only it came coupled with fear. They saw him not as he was, but as a terrible absent god who'd returned, who sought to restore Elvhenan, the world of the Elvhen People — whose salvation might also mean their doom. But what alternative did they have in this blighted world, but to place their faith in the Dread Wolf? The alternative was to continue to linger in misery and subjugation, in a broken world, severed from the Fade. And he could not give them any promise or certainty that his plans would not mean their demise.

He had gambled on prideful certainty in the past; he would not do so again. Yet, the greater his silence on the subject, the greater their hopes swelled.

It was not unlike the path the Herald walked.

Despite the Chantry's fear-mongering, it did not stop the tide of hope that was rising among those who met her and witnessed her deeds. Hope, which would certainly soon turn to devotion.

If anyone could understand his discomfort at being deified, it would be her.

As the Inquisition continued to grow, so too would her reputation, her renown — her _power._ Already, people looked to her with veneration and fear. Already, she was trapped by a purpose beyond herself, a cause that called her to be what they needed, to take on the mantle of _savior._

Many who would have found themselves in her position would have reveled in the sudden exaltation, the sudden elevation to a position of power, and yet she did not. From the beginning, she had resisted. She balked at the title thrust upon her, the role of savior, at the power afforded to her by those who needed the Anchor. As their adoration of her grew, at each _Herald_ and _Your Worship_ , as she was saddled with the responsibility of making choices for people — matters of life and death — she became increasingly distressed. Despite her carefully crafted mask of impassivity, he could see the weight of it all crushing down upon her, sending her further into herself. Sending her scrabbling for what small comforts she could find — a few too many drinks, disappearing off on foraging trips without notice, the repetitive stroking of a necklace not-quite-hidden beneath her tunic. It explained her intensity the night before — how she unfurled like a breath held too long.

_“My name is Tephra.”_

She was trying to hold onto what she could of herself, as the world around her took everything else.

And had he not done the same?

_“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”_

Though he omitted his true ambition, he chose his words carefully to avoid lying, when he could. He'd come to the Inquisition as himself — no farce, no fake identity. Simply himself — an apostate, with knowledge to share and a desire to close the Breach. There was an odd liberation in it, to be able to put down the title and simply be himself. It also showed him the nature of these creatures, these shadows — who looked no further than his ears or his status as an apostate.

Until her.

Perhaps she had only seen the ears, in the beginning, in her fumbling grasp for something familiar. But it was clear that she felt a deeper empathy with him, perhaps more than she even understood herself. She had come to him, without pretense or preconception, and sought his wisdom. Sought connection.

That was the absolute cosmic irony of it all — that he would find kinship in this terrible world with someone he wouldn't even consider a person. Someone who would understand what it was to be made into myth, to be mistakenly mantled with godhood, and it was his fault that she was put in that position in the first place. It was his fault that she was dying. That the world, as she knew it, would likely die alongside her.

He had bought her time, but in the end the mark would consume her and she would become one of the many whose deaths laid at his feet.

It had been one thing, to have caught glimpses of this blighted world in his dreaming. But waking and seeing the stark, catastrophic whole of it had been another thing entirely. In the dreaming, the distance diffused the catastrophe; he could only wonder at the extent and wander the Fade in search of answers. Waking had left no distance between him, and what he'd made.

The weight of it all — the _reality_ of it — had all but broken him.

It had taken time to accept what he'd done, to give up his attempts at accepting a world that did not accept him. In the end, he buried his grief. Not to forget what he'd done, but to distance himself from it — a sort of firebreak method to contain the agony. It had been the only way to move forward, to keep moving forward — to stay focused on the endgame.

Despite his miscalculations and the unseen ramifications of the Elder One's actions, the aftermath, working with the Inquisition — it had all only served to strengthen his resolve to see his plan through. All that had died for his foolish pride only propelled him forward, to make it right — to pay what he owed. A debt which he knew would surely claim him, in the end.

It was simply a cruel turn of chance that brought her path to his — that she would be the one to die, and not the magister.

He needed his friend — he needed Wisdom.

But it had fled with all the rest of the gentler, rarer spirits, to hide in the furthest reaches of the Fade. A part of him was glad for that, that it had sought safety far from the Breach, and a part of him mourned the absence of his friend and its unwavering insight.

If Wisdom returned, perhaps it would be able to provide a better perspective on this situation, one without bias or complicated by emotion.

_If Wisdom returns, perhaps she would be amenable to meeting it._

The thought bolted into his mind, unbidden.

It alarmed him that it had occurred to him at all. Exposing his friend to an unknown was dangerous — however curious Lavellan was, she had not given her personal stance on spirits and demons. For all that he knew of her, she could have been saying precisely what she needed to say to elicit whatever truths she sought out of him. Her declaration at the gates of Haven, of wanting to meet his spirit friends, could very well have been simply a gambit to win his favor, his trust.

It was easy to suspect duplicity; it fed into his need to denounce them all, to dismiss this blighted world. It would have made things so much simpler if she had been what he'd expected of the Dalish — stubborn and close-minded, full of suspicion and fear. Exposure to such a mind would surely corrupt the nature of one of his dearest and oldest friends; it was a risk he was unwilling to make. Yet as much as it would have aided him in keeping his distance believing that, she had never tried to outright deceive any of them to the best of his knowledge. If anything, she only kept her silence when she refused to give information regarding her clan, to protect them, or of herself, to hold onto whatever remained to her that hadn't been stripped away already.

And he really could not fault her for omitting such things, for the sake of self-preservation, as he was doing precisely the same.

Yet the alternative was worse — cruel, even, in that she had been entirely sincere. That her interest, the intensity in which she engaged him in conversation, was neither dishonest nor anomalous, but _real_. Not a trick of the light, but rather the turning flash of a lighthouse in the deep dark signaling safe harbor. And in that, the possibility of affinity and understanding, kinship and camaraderie — freely given.

All of the things which were missing from him in this blighted world, and all of the things he had not known for a very long time.

He had not expected it; he had not expected her.

How could such a broken world produce such a promising spirit? It called into question everything he knew of this world, and of its inhabitants. It seeded doubt, which he could ill afford.

Denial was the safest route, and yet he could no longer deny her gravity, her weight, her existence.

Possibly, even—

_No._

The thought came like brand across his mind and he banished it abruptly, like releasing hold of a searing pan, lest he be burned for it. He was risking too much considering such things. He could not afford to let his alienation and loneliness make him weak, to make him falter. Even if he was wrong, there was no better option, no other path to take but the one set before him. And this one ended with the ending of this world.

Even if—

No, distance was what was needed. For the sake of his mission, he needed to remain detached.

And she needed to be the Herald, and nothing more.

Not Tephra, not—

_Real._  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


The laughter of children echoed through the ravine, as they waded and splashed in the shallows of the stream.

Tephra watched them, for a time. There were dozens of them, and hardly any were over the age of twelve. The few older adolescents watched over them like shepherds tending their flock. Some were skipping stones across the stream, while others shucked their boots and splashed in the knee-high water despite the chilly weather. They were Ferelden children, through and through. Sunlight poured down through the thick canopy of the trees that grew atop ledges and shelvings of rock that overhung the stream, and the song of countless jackdaws and magpies filtered through the branches.

For the moment, she could forget where she was and the events that had brought her here. She could pretend that she was back home with her clan in the Free Marches and watching over the little ones. Teaching them how to forage, how to track and catch rabbits. Teaching them how to play Andruil's Hunt, and Halla and the Wolf, and Demon's Run.

But these were not the children of her clan, these were orphans and refugees, wounded and wary. Human and elven, elf-blooded and dwarven. There was even a Qunari girl — an orphan taken in by one of the families seeking refuge. For the moment, here in this quiet refuge of the wilderness, they forgot their grief and remembered how to play. Even the ones she'd plucked from the fire stepped lightly through the water, chasing after the small silver fish that darted between their feet.

_They are not sons and daughters of the Dalish, but you have made them your own._

The truth of it settled heavy in her chest.

In saving them, she had made them her own. She had doomed herself to caring, to tethering herself to their fate.

As the stories of her spread, more people showed up to volunteer or to seek safety among them. Even in the Crossroads, their modest band had grown into a full caravan overnight. By the time she'd dragged herself down to breakfast, Cassandra informed her of the crowds idling outside to seek audience with her. Young men and women seeking to take up sword and shield against the unrest, refugees seeking peace and safety from the conflict — she'd counted sixty-two of them, not including her own companions and the apostates and their children they'd saved the prior day. A merchant family among them provided several wagons, to transport supplies for the Inquisition, as well as to serve as transport for the ailing and the wounded and the very young.

How could she have turned them away?

From the start, she had done her best to distance herself from the unfortunate fate that had befallen her, from the title that had been thrust upon her. The strange magic that burned in her hand had tied her to the fate of everything — she would never be free again, no until she could close the Breach. Perhaps not even then. She had come to accept that truth, but had steeled herself against those who surrounded her, who sought to use her or manipulate her. She knew nothing of their petty politics and wars, and she did her best to know nothing of those who called themselves her _advisor_ or _companion_.

The time she'd spent locked in the chantry cell had reminded her how to survive — how to be silent as a shadow, slipping between the trees. How to be the unseen dagger, slipping between the ribs. That her only true safety was in solitude.

Yet, as the days and weeks passed, it forced her into the reality of proximity. She could not overlook nor ignore the increasing familiarity of those who spent their days at her side, travelling with her to fix the wrongs and save what they could. And as the list of things asked of her to accomplish grew, as their Herald, she knew that they would continue to become more than just strangers drawn into this strange fate with her. And with that, came the risk of _caring_ — about their welfare, their fates.

There was a part of her that would always be a bit too feral, and half-starved. She'd spent too much of her life alone, so all that she knew existed in extremes — too much, or too little. If she cared for them, she could do no less than care absolutely. And opening oneself to such caring was akin to setting oneself on fire — in the end, it could only destroy her.

Yet despite her best attempts to remain distant, she found herself softening to them. With each small gesture of kindness, she wavered. Perhaps it was homesickness, a need for things to be simple again — ordered, and predictable. It would be too easy to slip back into the role she'd served among her clan, the one she'd first taken up long before she had known anything else — _protector_ , and _caretaker_. First to her brother, and then later the children of her clan. Brothers and sisters not of blood, but of choice.

Watching the children playing in the creek, she knew it would be far too easy to care. To throw herself into that role. It was the only familiar thing in all of this mess — a neat and tidy role to play. Something to hold onto.

_And if you fail, like you did before, you'll have to carry that weight._

And she knew all too well that the littlest bodies were the heaviest to carry.

Tephra tilted her head back and let out a slow breath as she willed herself to not think of such things. She let herself be calmed by the warm touch of the sun, and watched the light scattering and glittering between the leaves above.

From her peripheral, she could see that the apostate was watching her again. Yet as she turned to meet his gaze, he was already absorbed with helping the scouts re-load water casks into one of the supply wagons.

He hadn't said a word to her since the night before.

Prudently, she considered that the hasty manner in which their caravan departed the Crossroads to be the reason for that. Even the first few hours on the road had been hectic, as they worked out a pace that accommodated all parties without putting undue strain on the injured, as well as charting a path off the main roads to avoid conflict to their best ability.

Yet, as the day wore on, it was harder to ignore Solas's distinct silence. Especially when it seemed that he spoke to nearly everyone, but her.

At first, it had been easy to assume a dismissal, as before. Or to think that she had simply said too much, that she had overstepped and overshared, and once again earned his disapproval. To think she had rambled on like some mad person, on such subjects that were generally considered taboo or to be avoided — gods and spirits, death and politics. Things that had no place in conversations of casual acquaintances. What had she been thinking?

She had, perhaps, been far too permissive the night before and not just in conversation ― she had not drank like that, not since she'd left her clan months ago. And even then, she rarely let herself drink to that degree ― it left her too open, too unguarded, too free with her opinions. Yet grief had driven to seek oblivion in inebriation — to rid herself of the memory of the boy she couldn't save, and of the young templar she'd so viciously killed. She had not anticipated that Solas would linger, let alone provoke her into conversation. And for it, the night had unfolded into spectacularly embarrassing display of the kind of foolish rambling she was prone to, when her inhibitions were compromised. The fact that Solas had endured it at all still surprised her, even if he'd remained largely silent during the whole of it. She was used to being shut down by her clanmates, chided for her foolishness, for her grim interests. Yet Solas had done nothing to stop her rambling; he'd encouraged it, and even in his silence he'd afforded her nothing less than his full attention.

That he'd listened at all had meant more to her than she cared to admit.

Given their short history of exchanges, she'd expected his criticism and judgment, yet he'd remained curiously silent throughout her grim spiel. And the more she rambled, the more he looked stricken. Perhaps she had crossed a line with him, or perhaps he thought her just as mad as her own people did.

Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

When it came to Solas, she was never quite certain of where she stood with him. He was impossible to read, at times — barely fathomable at the best of times. Like trying to work out a puzzle with only half the pieces. Whatever it was, it was reflected in his body language, in his purposeful avoidance of her gaze. In how he seemed to skirt her periphery, somehow managing to avoid direct interaction with her throughout the day.

Realization came abruptly; this was neither dismissal, nor disapproval.

It was a _retreat._

He was an apostate — a hermit. She knew that meant he spent the majority of his life away from people, from civilization. He'd even confessed that most — if not all — of his friends were spirits. She could only wonder at how little he interacted with flesh and blood people before joining the Inquisition, if at all. And despite being a recluse, despite being an apostate, he'd thrown himself into the center of this sprawling mess of saving the world. Among people.

Loud, messy, demanding _people._

His forays into conversations were often exploratory — a question here, or observation there, to prompt others into speaking to better gauge them. She'd watched him with Varric and Cassandra, carefully provoking them into divulging more of themselves, of their views of the world. But in return, he gave little of himself. Yet the conversations between them had been far more provoking, and he'd been far more permissive in speaking of himself and his views.

It was only after the fact that she better remembered his distinct silence as she went on about their people, about their history. How he seemed to retreat further into his chair, under the weight of something she couldn't begin to fathom.

It dawned on her that she hadn't offended him, or earned his disapproval — she had _overwhelmed_ him.

She was ashamed she hadn't recognized it sooner.

When she'd first rejoined her clan, she had often and easily been overwhelmed by the sudden shock of connection, of conversation, of _people_ — which was easy when you'd had nothing but the company of your own thoughts for so long. It had taken her a while to remember how to be a person again, for her to feel safe and welcome among them.

And she could see that now, in him. What he needed was patience — a hand held open, without expectations or demands.

She watched as Solas helped another scout lift a heavy crate into the back of a wagon. When they finished, he excused himself and disappeared among the bustle of the caravan.

At least, she hoped it was simply that.

She was starting to enjoy the sudden occurrence of these extended dialogues with him, which swept in like a sudden storm when she least expected it. Speaking with him, as she had — without fear, or pretense — had been a reprieve she had not known since before the Breach. The sudden catharsis had stripped away her defenses, her practiced indifference — what little armor she had against the forces at work around her, which were steadily stripping away her freedoms and identity. He'd seen her, truly, as none of the others had, and for it the possibility of being dismissed by him would have been crushing.

Tephra gave a sharp sigh, and dismissed the worry tugging at her thoughts. Until Solas said as much himself, she would not let her sudden insecurity sabotage her composure.

“Lady Herald?”

Tephra turned to see one of the children she'd pulled from the burning cabin, the elder of two sisters.

_Her name is Audra._

Tephra had made a point of asking their names, and of remembering them. Names of those they saved, and those they lost. How long would that list become, in the end?

Perhaps it meant little in the long run, but it mattered to her, to remember.

Audra was the oldest of the four apostate's children at ten years. She held out a palmful of kumquats. “I found them by the water,” the girl said, looking immensely proud of herself.

Tephra accepted the offering with a small smile. “A good find,” she complimented, as she tucked the fruit away in her coat pocket.

Audra shot her a curious look, “Were you watching the birds? He was always watching the birds, too.”

She knew the answer as the weight of it settled in her gut. Yet still, she asked, “The one who died?”

“He liked them,” the girl said, as if it were nothing and everything. “His name was Orin.”

“So did my brother,” Tephra replied impulsively, as she felt a boneless wobble shiver through her knees. She ignored it, as she continued, “He was very good at imitating their sounds, so they would call back to him.”

She never spoke of her brother. And yet fate had aligned just so — so that this girl could say precisely the right thing, in precisely the right context, to pry the silence from her grief. They were too far from the caravan for anyone else to share in the confession.

The girl gave a sudden smile. It was crooked, and dimpled her cheeks. “What was his name?”

“Tern,” she replied, and the sound of his name in her throat was a raw, quiet thing.

“Like the bird?”

She gave a stiff nod, as she said, “We were camped by the sea when he was born. My mother labored all night, and the sounds of the terns nesting nearby calmed her. When he came in the morning, that's what she called him. He was our little bird.”

The girl was quiet a moment, before she asked, “Did he die, too?”

She did not look at the girl, and kept her face very still as the familiar wash of pain ebbed over her. When it passed, she could not speak her grief — only nod.

“I'm sorry he's gone,” Audra said.

Tephra rose, and cleared her throat, before she said, “Watch over your little sister. Keep her safe. And stay with your mother.”

The girl stiffened and straightened, before giving an approximation of a curtsy. And then she shot off like an arrow, jumping back into the creek after the other children.

Tephra couldn't help but think again of the boy lost to the fire, and the one she lost to the water, long ago.

There was a common saying that time thieved away all sorrows, like a stone worn smooth by the river. Tephra did not find that to be true. Her grief had followed her through her years, made and remade anew each night she sank down into her dreams. Horribly familiar in their frequency, yet over time they became as commonplace to her as the rising and setting of the sun. As familiar as the functions and sound of her own heart.

And in a way it was as if she'd never lost him, because he was always waiting for her there in the place of dreaming. Long after she had forgotten the faces of her parents, she stilled remembered his because it greeted her each night when she closed her eyes.

She knew that Varric was estranged from his family, and that he'd lost a brother. Cassandra had lost her parents, and then later her brother. It was an odd thread of sameness, of unspoken grief, stitched between the three of them.

She idly wondered if the apostate had lost his family, as well. Or if he was simply away from his people, estranged or exiled or—

Tephra drifted back toward the caravan, skirting the edges until she caught sight of the elf again. He was with Cassandra, as the Seeker dealt with some sort of disagreement between the refugees and the soldiers.

She regarded him with a new perspective, re-evaluating everything she knew of him.

There was something about him that caught at the eyes, like a trick of the light, that preceded his visage of humble wanderer.

Neither city elf, nor Dalish, but rather something else — something unknown. He'd mentioned being born in a small village, but failed to mention where, at least to her. He never spoke of family, or friends, or any sort of attachments. Even his accent stumped her. As subtle as it was, she could hear it especially when he spoke Elven. He spoke their language in a manner and cadence that she'd never heard before; even his pronunciation was different. She'd traveled quite a bit with her clan and spoke to elves in many different places, but none had spoke it the way he did. With Solas, it carried the lilt of a song — long-forgotten and half-remembered in dreams — which burned at her ears, at once familiar and foreign. As though there was something _more_ behind the words, but she lacked the ability to grasp it.

She could only wonder at his origin, of what clan he'd come from to be so physically different than any elf she'd known. Perhaps he'd come from the west, or some other far-flung corner of Thedas; the Dalish knew very little of the elves who'd fled into the further fringes of the world. And once, these lands had belonged entirely to the elves; it was not such a leap to think many might yet linger in far-off places, hidden from those who would enslave or subjugate them.

He was an unknown, and it made her terribly curious.

He even looked different than any elf she'd seen before. Sturdier than her kin, and taller by far — at least half a head taller than her, much to her annoyance. He was easily as tall as any human, if not taller. The lack of hair on his head threw his features into stark contrast. Sharp, and striking — absurdly angular, with impossible angles.

_A ridiculous face._

“You're gonna burn a hole in the back of his head, you know,” Varric piped up, suddenly at her side.

Tephra flushed, and huffed, “I'm still just trying to figure him out — his part in all of this.”

Not a lie, truly. Despite the reasons Solas had given for approaching the Inquisition, she couldn't help but feel there was more to it, that there was something he was omitting. It was as curious as it was unsettling.

The dwarf gave a laugh, “Good luck, Snowflake. Even Leliana can't figure the guy out. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd popped out of the Fade itself, like you did — as much as the guy goes on about it, and all.”

The observation felt startlingly, almost true — like an arrow hitting just off-mark.

He was a dreamer who studied the Fade, and a friend to the spirits — essentially everything the Chantry denounced. Perhaps he hesitated revealing the full breadth of his knowledge on such subjects out of fear of persecution, as it was so easy for an elf to be blamed for all the ills in this world — especially when knowledge could be so easily lumped in with culpability.

What did say of the world they lived in, that the pursuit of knowledge itself could be a death sentence? For that, she could not blame him for keeping certain things to himself.

Tephra cleared her throat, and shifted the conversation away from the apostate, and asked, “So, are you alright? Last night, Cassandra—”

The dwarf gave a dismissive grunt as he waved her off, “Forget about it. She was just diggin' up ghosts. Nothing good ever comes from that. She just knows how to get my goat, Snowflake.”

She knew little of Kirkwall and the start of the mage rebellion, or his involvement in it. At times, she caught fragments of their arguments, but it meant little to her without context. Perhaps in time she would hear the full story, from either of them. Perhaps then, she would understand this complicated, tight thing that existed between the two of them.

Again, she found herself unsettled by her own propensity to ask far too personal questions of her companions, questions she really had no business asking in the first place.

She shifted to something simpler, more casual, as she shot the dwarf a curious look, “So why “snowflake”?”

Varric chuckled, and quirked an eyebrow, “Have you ever heard the saying "a snowflake never falls in the wrong place"?”

“I can't say I have,” she replied.

“I don't put much stock into fate and providence and all that shit, but you being at the Conclave — that was something,” he said. Varric huffed, “I couldn't begin to tell you _what_ that something was, but you being there—”

“Oh, please don't do that,” Tephra groaned. “Don't be like the rest of them.”

The dwarf gave a gravelly laugh, “All I'm sayin' is you being there, getting that mark on your hand — it gave us a chance to fix it. To fight back. There's a reason for it all in there, somewhere.”

It occurred to her, then, that she would never escape the title that had been placed upon her. She would always be this to them — never just herself. Never just a Dalish hunter hailing from the Free Marches, who'd never been anything more than just that — just herself.

“That's a lot of meaning to put into a ridiculous nickname,” she remarked, dryly.

Varric gave a shrug, “I'm a writer, kid. I'm used to grasping at straws for meaning.” Sensing her unease, he shifted and gestured at her bandaged arm, “How's that doin', anyways? Did Chuckles heal you up good?”

She hadn't thought about the burns since Solas did what he could for them, and she hadn't checked under the bandages since the previous night.

To be fair, she'd been rather distracted and rather drunk.

At times, there had been minor pain or discomfort, but it had mostly felt warm, with an odd persistent tingling sensation radiating up from her hand — from the mark. It had stopped at some point in the night, and she had felt nothing at all since they left the Crossroads. There was only an odd tightness, a sense of pulling, like fabric caught up on a rough edge.

“Fine, I suppose. Not quite as charred as it could be.” She flexed the bandaged hand for emphasis.

Varric gave a snort, “In Kirkwall, we call that a barbecue. Though we generally stick to cattle and poultry.”

She laughed, despite herself. It had been a horrible thing and she still felt the weight of her guilt in failing to save the boy, but the dwarf pulled the laughter out of her as none of the others could. It made the weight easier, if only for a moment.

The dwarf clapped her shoulder, “When we get back to Haven, we'll have a proper barbecue — Kirkwall style. I'll show you how it's done.”

She wasn't terribly well-versed in events outside of her clan, beyond the sparse news brought in from those they traded with, but she'd heard of the Kirkwall rebellion. Tephra quirked an eyebrow, “Didn't Kirkwall burn?”

“Only part of it,” Varric griped, before laughing despite himself. “We throw better parties than we do rebellions, fortunately.”

“Do you have family back there, in Kirkwall?”

Varric exhaled audibly through his nose. “No. Not the blood relations sort, anyway. More of the found-and-forged-in-fire type. Really only the one, but he's not there, he's—” He stopped himself, to glance about the caravan warily for the Seeker. He huffed, and sighed, “It doesn't matter where he is, only that he's safe.”

The dwarf was quiet for a time, lost to his memories, before he asked, “So what about you, kid? Got family waiting back home for you? Friends?” He gave an exaggerated, playful wink, “A lover, or two?”

Children dashed past her, as exasperated parents and caretakers herded them into the wagons.

“Gone.”

How could one word hold so much weight?

“I, uh—” Tephra cleared her throat, faltering over her own memories. “—I rejoined my mother's clan a while after. They became family, and friends.”

Varric lapsed into silence beside her, as they watched the bustle of the caravan readying to depart. After a time, he nudged her arm with her elbow, and gave a gravelly chuckle, “Didn't hear you denying any lovers, Snowflake. So let's hear it. Lurid details, shenanigans, tragedy — all the makings for a good story.”

She gave his shoulder a shove, sending the dwarf hopping and hooting with laughter.

“What's this about lovers? Are you harassing the Herald, Varric?” the Seeker cut in, a bit too loudly. She'd seemingly appeared from nowhere, and stood towering over Varric and looking as if she could cut him down at the slightest provocation.

Tephra's face began to burn as she felt far too many eyes turn toward her. Even Solas was looking, now.

“Well,” Tephra said, as she made a show of sighing and throwing her arms around Varric. “It was only a matter of time before she found us out.”

Now it was the dwarf's turn to blush. He laughed awkwardly as he disentangled himself from her arms, “This dwarf is already taken, unfortunately for you, my lady Herald.”

She gave an overly dramatic sigh, “Whatever shall I do now?”

The Seeker rolled her eyes and gave a snort of annoyance, and the scatter of laughter from the scouts diffused her embarrassment, until she saw more than a few glances of interest shot her way.

“It is time to continue on, Herald,” the Seeker said. “You should get ready to depart.”

Tephra gave a sharp nod and began toward her own mount. Her face was still burning as she passed by the soldiers and scouts. Most were human, save for one elf, and most of them pointedly avoided her gaze. Except one of the humans — he smiled at her boldly.

“Maker take you, you can't look at her like that,” one of the soldiers chided him. “She's Andraste's _chosen_ , you fool.”

She turned her gaze forward as she continued on, pretending as though she could not hear them. She was thankful for the thick cover of her hair, which kept her ears concealed from sight. She could feel the heat spreading from her face to her ears; she was not accustom to this sort of attention.

“You forget, my friend, that Andraste was a wife once,” the bold soldier laughed, in response. “The Maker didn't give us bodies to not use them.”

“She's an elf, as well,” another noted, with a mockingly scandalized tone. The dart of his eyes from her face to her ears to elsewhere, was an intrusion which left her feeling intangibly violated.

_How observant of you._

“Maker take you all,” the first soldier cursed.

She quickly waded through the caravan and toward her mount, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the laughing soldiers.

She wasn't sure what bothered her more — being deified and being seen as untouchable, or being deified and being seen as an object of taboo interest. The title put upon her had set her apart from them all; despite being in a position of service to the Inquisition, she was aware that the mark had afforded a position of power among them. And that had guaranteed that none of them would see her as just herself — as just Tephra. It created a distance between herself, and the rest of them. Even the dwarf, whom she'd grown the closest to, whom she felt the most at ease with, sometimes looked at her with that same reverence as the others.

It left her feeling isolated, and frayed.

Tephra held out a hand as her colt moved toward her in a playful trot; he bumped his muzzle against her chest. She stroked the long line of his nose and patted his neck, before pressing a quick kiss between his eyes. She had not thought to name him, but he was a fine horse — fair-footed and agile, if a bit rambunctious. Still, it had not taken long to retrain him in the Dalish way.

She fastened her gear to the back of the saddle, before hoisting herself up. Tephra shot a look back to the Seeker, only to be met by the many faces of their caravan — soldiers, recruits, refugees, tag-alongs. Awaiting her command.

The knot of anxiety in her stomach greeted her like an old friend, but the Seeker caught her gaze. Sitting atop a black gelding, Cassandra gave a reassuring nod.

_She wants me to lead._

There was an odd sort of pride that came with the Seeker's support.

Tephra cleared her throat, and called out to the caravan, “Let's go.”  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Engaging the Stone Child on the subject of his kind — of the Stone's call, of the downfall of the Durgen'len empire — had proved to be a fruitless endeavor. Master Tethras was not what he should have been, either. The dwarf was cut off from the Stone as much as the elves were cut off from the Fade. Yet Solas could hardly fault him for that — the dwarf was so far removed from the sundering of the Titans by countless generations, that he could not possibly conceive of what had been lost to his own people, to himself.

To think such atrocity could come from seeking to give freedom.

They'd sought to free the Stone children from their mindless toiling beneath the pillars of the earth, only to render them thus — the death rattle of a fractured empire. Though it wasn't as though he could heartily delve into who was at fault for it either — that he knew well enough. Still, he endeavored to parse the nature of the dwarf, to evaluate the degrees of his sentience and self-awareness. It was truly remarkable — the likeness and appearance of life that he possessed, his nimble wit and the depths of his character.

But then, the Stone Children had always had a way of exceeded his expectations and shaking his worldview. That they could be so much, without the innate connection to magic — to the Fade. It staggered him that they were capable of such ingenuity without it.

The caravan was moving at a slow, but steady pace, given that most were traveling on foot. Mounts were in short supply, and two of the three wagons were dedicated to transporting supplies. The third was an armored carriage, which carried the wounded and the very young. Still, they managed to cover a good distance over the day's course. Daylight waned, and soon they would stop to make camp along the shore of Lake Calenhad. The rocky shore was not ideal for camping, but it was safer in that the guards could better see the approach of bandits or dangerous wildlife.

Varric piped up suddenly, as he guided his horse closer to where Solas walked, and asked, “So what's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?”

“I've no idea what you mean,” he replied, promptly.

It had been some time since he'd recounted the story of the man on the island, shortly after departing from the Crossroads, and it was evident in Varric's heated tone that he'd been stewing on the subject the whole time.

Despite her air of casual indifference, the Herald had not-so-surreptitiously listened in on the exchange, and when he'd caught her watching him he'd been surprised to find not judgment but simply curiosity in her sharp eyes. He could see her working it out in her mind, making the connections without asking who and what he'd lost.

Once again, he'd found himself startled by the notion that she could understand him — his predicament. And that was the trap, which threatened to ensnare him.

He would have to be more careful around her. Very little escape her notice, her inevitable scrutiny, even when it was masked so deeply in metaphor and transference.

“All the “fallen empire” crap you go on about,” the dwarf continued. “What's so great about empires anyway? So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar's too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire. There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad. Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be.”

He could not keep the vehemence from his tone as he retorted, “And you have no concept of what that difference cost you.”

“Oh, I know what it _didn't_ cost me,” Varric assured, heatedly. “I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell.”

Solas could not accept the dwarf's apathy towards the loss of his people's history — their empire, their way of life, their connection to the Stone. Had the dwarves fallen so far as to lose their sense of commonality, of kinship — of their true nature? “You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could’ve been, never fighting back?”

Varric gave a sudden laugh, “You’ve got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back.”

Solas shot him an incredulous frown, “How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?”

The dwarf regarded him with a measured look, “In that story of yours — the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone — you thought he gave up right?”

“Yes,” he reaffirmed.

“But he went on living,” Varric insisted. There was something charmingly earnest in the dwarf's words as he continued, “He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone.”

_Ah._

The dwarf's tone was far too impassioned for simple debate. Solas had the sneaking suspicion that he'd been found out, in some small way. Master Tethras had no way of knowing the truth, even in part, but he was a storyteller — he knew metaphors and allusions. He'd framed the questions in allegory, seeking to understand why a dying race would not fight to reclaim itself, its glory — yet he wasn't surprised that the dwarf picked up on the most basic similarity between them and himself.

Varric looked on him and saw what all the rest had seen — an apostate, who wandered the world alone and kept to himself. It would be very easy to assume that he'd lost his clan, his people. It was an easy assumption make, and not truly off the mark.

But he was not the man on the island, and he could not afford giving up and going quietly into annihilation. If that man he'd seen in Fade, alone on his island, had the power to erase the calamity that took his people in the first place, if he could unmake the world of ruin he'd wrought — what then?

He would certainly bring back his family, his people. Who wouldn't, in their grief?

But Solas could not ask that of him, no more than he could take the dwarf's advice. There were no other solutions, no better way. In the end, he knew what he would have to do, and he could only hope to do so as peacefully as he could for them. Even if they weren't people, they deserved that much — peace, and a merciful end to the vast suffering wrought by his own hand.

He could see it in them, all around him — those who'd lost everything, or near enough — as they trudged onward to Haven, in the hopes for something better, for some small reprieve from the horrors and the pain they'd endured. It proved his point, did it not? That even these lesser beings knew to fight for what little they could get, to seek out what comfort they could in such a terrible world.

He looked ahead, to the Herald — why had she not spoken up? She had begun to warm to her companions, and often barreled into discussions with curious perspectives and questions. Why had she not, this time? Yet she merely sat rigid atop her horse, her knuckles white with tension as she held the reins and swallowed her opinions.

He very much wanted to ask them of her, to be scathed by whatever furious vexation lay locked behind her teeth. Yet he was certain that she harbored no alternatives, no advice that he could partake of, either.

No, there was no use in further continuing the analogy, and doing so risked giving away too much of himself. He kept his silence, and let the dwarf continue.

“That’s the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you’ve got, it takes — and it’s gone forever. The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That’s as close to beating the world as anyone gets.” The dwarf heaved a slow sigh, as he added, “Sometimes there's no going back, no matter what we lost. Sometimes all we've got is to keep moving forward.”

_There is no path, but forward._

Solas could have laughed at how close the dwarf's words had struck to his own mantra. “Well said, Master Tethras. Perhaps I was mistaken,” he conceded.

There was wisdom in the Stone Child's words, but none that Solas could partake of. He could see the bravery in a mortal accepting the world as it was — fickle and finite and often cruel — of finding meaning in a life, even alone. But he was no mortal, and he was not the last of his kind. There were those waiting for him, those to whom he had a responsibility in fixing the world. Further, he could not ask the dwarf for alternatives, or what-ifs, without outing himself in some manner.

While the dwarf's stance was admirable, it was ultimately useless to him.

His gaze returned to Herald, riding ahead of them among the caravan. Still silent and stiff-backed atop her horse, as though their conversation had vexed her on some level. He couldn't help but wonder if some aspect of it had unsettled or perhaps offended her. He silently willed her to join in, to share her perspective, but she continued to remain silent.

Solas could not help himself; he nudged the horse beneath him to quicken its pace, until they were riding side-by-side. He cast her a curious glance, “And what do you think, Herald?”

Her tone was stiff as she replied, “I think that sometimes we don't have a choice about what happens to us — they just happen, like an earthquake. Sometimes we don't have a choice about being alone.”

Once again, it was difficult for him to assess her emotional state without the ability to simply _sense_ them. There were so many subtleties and nuances to conversation, to true understanding between his people, that were simply lost in this world. The lack of it made those of this world seem flat — seem poor caricatures of what people should be. It hindered him greatly, at times, when approaching her in conversation, making it far too easy for her to provoke him — just as she did now.

“There's always a choice, in that,” he replied, a bit too heatedly, thinking of those who awaited him in their dreaming. Waiting to awaken in a world made whole.

She shot him a dark look, which seemed to pierce through his core, “Is there, truly?”

Solas recalled her dream, of what she'd lost, and it was like a stone dropping into the pit of his stomach. He said nothing as she gave her horse a kick and galloped ahead, clearly done with the conversation.

There was much missing, and he did not know the whole of it, yet it was clear that she had lost much. One after another — a family, or perhaps an entire clan — until it had just been her alone in the forest as a girl. She'd survived, but he could only wonder at how long she had remained there, unfound. How many nights had she curled up alone, with nothing but terrible dreams chasing at her heels? Why did she not seek out the others of her kind? Surely she had been capable of leaving, and yet she had not — at least, not until she was found. Had she simply given up hope?

He briefly recalled the sight of the feral adolescent, cornered and ready to fire on her own people.

What had coaxed her from that terrible solitude?

The mystery of it pulled at him and he found himself worrying at the small bulge in his breast pocket, where the report remained unread. He wasn't sure what kept him from reading it, except for the intangible feeling of something having shifted — having _changed_.

When he'd made the decision to approach the Inquisition, it was only after his agents had gathered a great deal of information and provided him with detailed reports on all of the major players involved — and that was before he'd ever first stepped foot in Haven.

Was it really so different, now?

She wasn't just a player amongst the Inquisition, though. She had become that which the whole movement hinged. Prudence dictated that he should have full knowledge of the one who carried his Anchor, to better understand and guide her — to make the best use of her in this unfortunate situation. He needed to know what he was dealing with in all aspects, yet still, he hesitated.

It seemed an intrusion to simply read the report, when he could take the time to build a rapport and ask her such things.

Time.

 _You sentimental old fool_. The thought came to him in a contemptuous self-reprimand.

There was no way of knowing how much time any of them had, when death came so swiftly to those around him and the Breach remained in the sky. And the Herald — her penchant for putting herself in life-threatening situations did not help quell the sense of urgency in needing to know exactly what he was dealing with when it came to her. It was only an odd sense of sentimentality that provoked his hesitation — a old preference for treating those beneath his rank as people, and not simply tools to be used.

Still — he would have preferred the luxury of taking the time to learn her truths through voluntary means, through the privilege of gaining her trust, and not from surveillance.

The dwarf had wandered ahead while he was lost to his own thoughts, and rode now side by side to the Herald. It was hard to not notice that her stance had relaxed, if marginally.

For a time, she simply rode beside the dwarf, saying nothing. Despite all of his ridiculous swagger, the dwarf was keenly aware of the Herald's mood, and remained tactfully silent.

“I went on living, too,” she said, finally.

She'd spoken so quietly that her words were nearly lost to him in the commotion of the caravan around them.

Varric had no way of knowing the context of her statement, yet he gave her a gentle look as he reached over and clasped her arm. “Yeah you did, kid. You're too stubborn to just lay down and die.”

As though startled by the weight of her own admission, or perhaps to avoid any probing questions, she pulled her arm free of Varric's grip and gave a sudden laugh, as she said, “I'm starting to think I've been cursed with not dying, however close I get to it.”

There was a delightfully husky pitch to her voice, which deepened when she laughed. It was something he'd overlooked before, but was become increasingly hard to ignore.

“Careful now,” the dwarf warned, with dark amusement. “The powers that be might hear you and take it as a challenge.”

She gave another laugh, as she brought up a hand to worry at the choppy lengths of hair around her ear, where the fire had burnt it away. The Anchor glimmered softly in her palm.

Would she too burn away in the fires of the new world, when the time came?

Solas could not account for the odd sadness which settled suddenly in his bones, unwelcome and impossible to ignore, at the thought of it, at the thought of losing—

None saw the arrow until it struck the Herald in the shoulder and sent her toppling off her horse.

A sudden barrage of arrows arced over the caravan, and chaos erupted as they found their targets. Seeker Cassandra's horse buckled beneath her as an arrow sank deep into its knee, sending her toppling unceremoniously to the ground. The Seeker barely avoided being crushed by her mount as the horse rolled and flailed too get its feet beneath itself. She was on her feet in a flash, and drew her sword as she shouted, “To your positions!”

Others around him fell to arrows, but Solas's focus was entirely on the Herald as he fade-stepped and crossed the meager distance between himself and to where she'd fallen.

Tephra was on her feet by the time he reached her, yanking the arrow out of her armor. He was relieved to see that there was no blood on the arrowhead. She threw it aside and fixed him with a furious gaze as she snapped, “Barriers — _now!_ ”

Solas turned his focus to the wagons; they'd already been pre-warded. All he needed to do was to activate them. Through them, he could maintain a sizable barrier to cloak the wagons, and several of the apostates worked to assist him, bolstering and strengthening them. The drivers had pulled the wagons together, as planned, and the refugees were scrambling into them as the arrows began to fall. Soldiers and scouts flanked the wagons in a defensive position, just within the safety of the barrier. The Herald had suggested using Dalish tactics, which had long-served their caravans of aravels from those who'd attack them. She'd patiently walked through the rehearsal with the fighters and the civilians several times, until each knew precisely what to do in the event of an attack, in the hopes of preventing as many unnecessary deaths as possible.

He took a breath, and on the next exhale magic poured from him and through the connected wards. The barrier snapped neatly into place. Arrows hit the shimmering veil and sparked into brief bursts of fire, before turning to ash.

The arrows ceased shortly after the barriers rose, and there was an exaggerated moment of silence as the fighters stood rigid, with their weapons drawn. Daylight had fled and despite the torches, the forest loomed dark and impenetrable around them.

Battle cries tore out of the darkness as the bandits struck from the east, blitzing into the caravan in a hail of frenzied magic and shouting. There were only a few attackers that he could see, yet the shouting came from all directions. It effectively disoriented the fighters and mages, as their own people began firing arrows and magic frantically into the darkness out of fear.

It took most of his focus to maintain the barrier, given its size, but he kept a careful watch on his companions as they scrambled to intercept the attackers.

Cassandra met the first bandit, sword to sword. The Seeker was a brutally efficient fighter, and her technique was without flourish or ego as she easily overtook him. She drove him back from the caravan with a flurry of strikes and blows, which the poor fool only barely managed to deflect.

Varric had taken up a strategic position atop one of the supply wagons, perched atop the crates — he provided cover fire for the civilians as they continued to pile into the armored carriage.

He scanned for the Herald, but could not find her among the chaos. His concern was short-lived, as he caught the brief shimmer of her cloaking spell as she darted through the caravan with her dagger drawn. There was an urgency to her movements; he followed her projected path and saw the young girl who'd frozen up amidst the clamor and fighting.

The Herald was too slow, though, as one of the soldiers bolted to the child and scooped her up. He made a break for the barrier surrounding the wagons as one of the bandits — a mage — turned their focus on him. There was a brief, staggered moment of understanding as the soldier caught sight of the mage as she loosed her spell, as he saw his own death hurtling toward him. The soldier shifted his weight mid-step and hurled the child through the barrier and into the waiting arms of a civilian. The spell crashed into him on the next step, sending the young man tumbling to the ground in a boneless heap.

The mage was struck down by a retaliation of arrows, most of which he was certain came from Master Tethras.

Tephra came to a skidding halt next to the fallen soldier, as her cloak wavered and dissipated. It was clear that she lacked the discipline to maintain her focus. She'd lost her grip on the spell the moment the soldier went down, and now lingered there foolishly with no cover and paying no heed to the arrows whizzing past her.

 _Fenedhis_. He would have to—

The Herald was off again, spinning away on her heel after her attention was diverted to another attacker, who was quickly advancing on the Seeker.

Cassandra's full attention was on the bandit she was fighting; she did not see the second assailant charging from behind. Solas was half a breath too slow as he sent a blistering spell hurtling toward the advancing bandit, missing him by a hairsbreadth. It mattered little, as the Herald bowled into him and sent them both tumbling to the ground. They grappled in the dirt, but the bandit's larger size was an easy advantage as he kept her pinned simply with his own weight. Tephra managed to crack her forehead to the bandit's, just as he slammed an armored fist into the side of her head.

Panicked anger flashed in him, as he left his position and rushed towards them — he could not cast another offensive spell without taking the risk of hitting her with friendly fire. His stride felt staggered and slow, as he watched the bandit slam his fist into the Herald's again. The Seeker had neutralized her opponent, and turned a slow circle on her heel as Solas rushed past her. She quickly followed after him as she spotted the Herald struggling beneath the bandit.

As they reached the struggling pair, the bandit stilled suddenly and went limp. The Herald rolled the man off of herself; her dagger was sunk deep into the apple of his throat. The Herald remained there, supine, as she caught her breath.

The caravan had fallen silent.

The barriers still stood, maintained by the apostates. The soldiers and scouts remained in position, but began to relax as it became evident that the battle was over.

“Check for casualties!” the Seeker barked, before stalking to where the Herald was beginning to rise from where she lay on the ground.

Cassandra hauled her to her feet and began to meticulously look the Herald over, but the elf waved her off. Blood ran down from a scalp wound on the side of her head, staining a path down the side of her neck, and a deep bruise was beginning to flush at the center of her forehead. Yet she paid them no heed as she walked to where the soldier had fallen before.

Solas was surprised to see that he was still alive, but given the young man's wounds, it would not be for much longer. The spell had blown the young man's chest cavity wide open, leaving a red ruin of charred armor and torn flesh. There was nothing the medics or the mages could do for him, but give him peace.

The Herald knelt and settled on the ground beside him. She reached to gently pull his cloak over his chest to cover the grievous sight of his dying body.

The soldier sought her gaze earnestly, as he said, “I'm sorry, my lady Herald. I was too slow.”

Solas watched as understanding bloomed in her dark eyes, as she remembered her own words.

_“Save all that you can.”_

Her expression softened, as she brought a hand to his face and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “You have nothing to be sorry for. What's your name?”

“Bjorn, my lady,” he replied, between slow ragged breaths. He began to lift an arm, reaching aimlessly in his growing disorientation. “The boy—”

“He's fine,” she assured, as she took hold of his hand. “You did well, Bjorn. Rest now. Your fight is over.”

The silence of the caravan was deafening. Solas could not help but be staggered by the silent reverence of the soldiers and scouts, of the refugees, as they watched the gentle way in which the Herald tended to the fallen soldier.

Once again, he could not help but think of the purity of purpose reflected in her, which mirrored that of spirits. Her actions reflected Compassion, and its resulting effect on those around her echoed Hope.

The Herald leaned down over him, and spoke quietly to the young man. She held his hand until his grip loosened, and death took him. She stayed with the soldier until the medics came to collect his body.

When she stood, she met his gaze with a haggard expression, “You were right. It doesn't get easier.”

It wasn't often that he wished to be wrong, but watching this world — this war — slowly destroy what innocent naiveté she had left to her was something he took no pleasure in.

“Come, let me see,” the Seeker ordered brusquely, as she took hold of the Herald's arm and turned her so that she could better see the elf's head wound. Cassandra gave a frustrated huff at the sight of the blood, and batted the Herald's hand away as she reached to feel at the wound with curious fingers.

“It's just a scratch,” the elf grumbled.

Cassandra looked to him, and asked, “Can you close it? I will stitch it if you cannot.”

“I can manage it,” Solas replied.

The Seeker turned a sharp look on the Herald, as she reprimanded her, “That was foolish of you, Herald. You cannot risk yourself like that.”

“So you're allowed to risk yourself for me, but I can't cover your back?” Tephra shot back, heatedly.

“Do _not_ do that again,” Cassandra warned, as she moved to leave Solas to the work of seeing to the Herald's wounds.

“Try and stop me,” the elf grumbled, stubbornly.

The Seeker gave a disgusted snort, but could not quite hide the smile pulling at her mouth as she turned to stalk away. She shouted after the soldiers, and began the process of assessing the wounded.

“Well, here we are again,” the Herald mused, as she watched his approach.

Solas ignored the momentary flutter in the pit of his stomach and took a quick visual assessment of her wounds, before he gently touched her forehead and felt for swelling. The center was flushing a deep shade of red. His fingertips were inexplicably drawn to the lines that marred her skin — twining branches of grey ink approximating antlers.

Unlike other species of deer, female halla grew antlers, which were no less impressive than their male counterparts. And they were just as quick to use them in defense of themselves, or their young. He'd seen many predators impaled upon the antlers of halla, having foolishly believed them to be easy prey. “Despite your vallaslin, you are not actually a halla. There are better ways to disorient your opponent than headbutting,” he advised.

“Perhaps,” she conceded. A wry smile pulled at her mouth, as she said, “But not quite as fun. They always have this brilliant look of disbelief in their eyes right before my head slams into theirs.”

Solas gave weary sigh, before turning his attentions to the bleeding wound hidden in her hair. He worked on her a bit more slowly than he could have — he took the time to inspect her scalp thoroughly, sifting through her thick hair for any overlooked injury, trying and failing to ignore its soft texture against against his calloused fingers. He checked behind her ears, and then probed at the back of her neck for any swelling or sign of discomfort.

He returned finally, to the source of the bleeding, satisfied that there were no hidden wounds to see to. As he parted her hair away from the laceration and laid his glowing palm over the wound, he said, “You should not act as though you were invincible.”

She laughed, “Why not? I have you.”

It was a flippant, off-handed jest, yet his stomach rolled and clenched at her words.

There was danger there, in such a declaration, however idle and harmless her intent.

Solas cleared his throat, and chided, “I will not always be around to heal you when you act foolishly. You should exercise caution, Herald.”

She regarded him a moment with disappointment, before averting her gaze and sighing, “Are we back to that, again?”

 _Distance_ , he reminded himself.

Distance was what was needed.

“Titles are unfortunately difficult to discard of,” he replied.

As he finished sealing the wound, Tephra frowned, and put a hand to her temple.

Solas turned her face to his, scanning for any hints of an overlooked wound. “Are you in pain?”

“No, it's—”

The Herald tilted her head, as though she heard something which no one else seemed to. She winced, and put a hand to her temple. Her frown deepened, “Something's wrong. Don't you feel it?”

Solas pressed his fingertips to her forehead and cast a scanning spell — had he overlooked something? Perhaps it was a closed head wound, something far more dangerous than a simple laceration.

“No, it's not that, Solas, it's—” She winced again, before she continued, insistently, “There were only five of them.”

“Five,” he echoed distractedly, as he continued to probe the delicate structures of her brain. He did not sense swelling or bleeding, or any further signs of trauma.

“ _Solas_.”

His eyes snapped to hers.

“The _bandits_ ,” she clarified. “Why would they attack us if they were so clearly outnumbered?”

 _Because they are not_ , he thought with sudden, cold clarity.

He did not have time to shout a warning. The barriers had been dropped. Refugees were assisting the soldiers with loading the newly-wounded into the wagons. The bandits spilled out of the forest in greater numbers than before, and began to assault the caravan.

Solas had only just begun to raise his staff to restore the barrier, when the Herald lurched ahead of him. She buckled over, grabbing at her head.

And then, suddenly, he felt it — the heady, pulsing weight of the Fade pressing where the Veil had worn thin.

Magic cracked like lightning, arcing in torrents over the caravan.

All eyes turned to the sky above, as it split open and demons began to rain down upon them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive and kicking. Despite the lateness of this update, I have not stopped writing this fic, nor intend to in the future. I've had a bit of personal upheaval in my life in the last few months, but things are beginning to settle down again. Hopefully I will be able to regain my previous rhythm, and keep updates flowing.
> 
> I'm trying to avoid from quoting too much straight from the game, beyond what is crucially important. Also, I generally do not use epithets so often as this, but from Solas's current POV, it fits with his not really viewing them as “people”, except for the moments when unavoidably he does, and it will shift over time as he begins to reassess his original assumptions.


	10. Walker Of The Lonely Path

You know every version of this story.  
How it began,  
the bloody origin that meant  
you would never be alone again.  
How your voice used to be enough for the both of you.  
How you grow together, two soft shoots in a forest  
you never asked to belong to.  
How it’s always the clasped hands against the monsters.  
How eventually you’ll have to let go.  
— _Emily Palermo_  
  
  


The rift tore through the sky and through her mind.

“ _Demons!_ ”

The word was shouted in a panicked chorus all around her by soldiers and bandits alike. Tephra stumbled, grasping at her head as bodies bumped into hers in their haste to flee. Cassandra grabbed her by the arm and pulled her swiftly from the chaotic fray and towards the wagons. She felt the barrier magic wash over her, tickling at her senses.

“Stay where it's safe,” the Seeker commanded, in a tone that brooked no arguments, before turning back to rejoin the fighting.

Her head throbbed with the weight of magic, but it was not the same as before. Before, it had been overwhelming — it had staggered her with the vast weight of the Fade itself bearing down on her. This was different; it felt more controlled, almost manageable.

“Up here, kid,” Varric called down from his perch on the wagon.

Tephra looked up to see the dwarf leaning down over the side of the wagon and reaching for her. She grabbed hold of his hand, and let him haul her up beside him.

“Ass deep in bandits _and_ demons. Must be our lucky day,” Varric grumbled, as he reached for Bianca.

_Fucking bandits._

At least the demons couldn't help what they'd become; putting them down was a mercy. But bandits made a choice to thieve, to maim — to kill.

She had very few qualms when it came to putting bandits down.

Tephra unslung her quiver and propped it where she could quickly retrieve arrows. She readied her bow and nocked an arrow; she let out a slow breath as she searched for a target.

The battlefield had descended into utter chaos.

Soldiers and bandits were fighting the demons — when they weren't fighting each other — and the demons were attacking anything that moved. In one moment, the soldiers and bandits worked together to bring down a terror demon, and then resumed fighting each other in the next, after it fell. Scouts were trying to corral the panicked horses, and the mages struggled to keep the barriers up and holding against the combined onslaught of offensive spells from the shades and bandit mages.

Tephra loosed arrows when she found exactly what she was looking for — an unguarded throat, gaps in their armor, someone stalling long enough for her to put an arrow between their eyes.

Solas was shouting to the mages to hold their positions as several of the terror demons stalked towards the wagons. She couldn't blame them for their fear — her blood ran cold at the sight of them, too. She didn't want to think of what could happen if they lost the barriers, though. She let Cassandra and the soldiers handle the bandits, while she shifted her focus to the demons advancing on the mages. She counted nine of them in all — six terror demons, three shades, and—

The dead bandit's body — the mage who'd killed the soldier — gave a violent shudder, twitching where it lay. It jerked and contorted as magic writhed and coiled around it and _changed_ it. What rose in the mage's place was unlike anything she'd ever seen before; its eyes burned an unnatural red light.

Varric cursed beside her, and said, “Maker. It's a damned revenant. We've got to bring it down quick.”

“Pissing hell,” she muttered, and began to loose arrows at the demon.

The revenant rose to its feet, and turned its focus on the apostate mages. They'd been positioned in a loose ring around the wagons, with bowmen positioned atop the wagons and assigned to keep any and all threats off them. The demon stalked toward the apostates, trudging through the hail of arrows.

Arrows which had already struck deep in its body splintered and cracked as new ones sank into the demon's flesh. Still, it continued on toward the mages, unfazed by the onslaught.

“My arrows aren't even slowing it down,” she huffed in frustration.

“I'm not even sure demons _feel_ pain,” Varric remarked, grimly.

The mages had begun to edge back toward the wagons, which was effectively diminishing the radius of the barriers. Soon, they would be cornered, and forced to flee, which would disrupt the barriers entirely and leave the refugees open to attack.

_Shit._

Tephra's heart pounded in her ears.

_Time to do something stupid._

She set her bow aside, and unsheathed her dagger. She let out a slow breath as she centered her thoughts. The glamour slipped over her skin as she vaulted over the side of the wagon, to the ground below.

Tephra padded through the battlefield unseen, past the mages and and the fighting, and circled around the revenant. It continued its inevitable approach of the wagons, paying no heed to the arrows protruding from its torso — even as Varric and others continued to fire on it.

Without a second thought, she launched herself onto the revenant's back as she dropped the glamour. An arrow clipped her ear and she heard Varric give a cursing shout.

 _Should have warned him_ , she thought with dark amusement, as she hooked her arm around the demon's throat. Warmth trickled down the side of her neck, but she hardly felt the pain over the adrenaline coursing through her body. The demon staggered beneath her sudden weight, but righted itself and began to lurch forward. It attempted to shake her from its back with each step, but did not slow it course otherwise.

Tephra held tight to the demon, and began to stabbing it at a furious pace, driving the dagger deep into vital organs. Between the ribs and into the lungs, further to the heart. The revenant reached up to grasp hold of her, dead fingers scrambling for purchase in her hair. She struggled to keep out of its reach as she slashed at its throat. Still the demon staggered forward, no matter the ruin she made of its body.

“ _Herald!_ ”

Solas's voice cracked like a whip through the din of the chaos.

He had moved to position himself between the revenant and the rest of the mages, and held his staff aloft defensively as he yelled to her, “Move away from it!”

Tephra released her hold and let herself drop back to the ground, hopping back on agile legs to put distance between herself and the creature. Heat blasted across her face and sent her scrambling further back as Solas unleashed a scorching spell that engulfed the demon.

The spell lit up the dark forest grove in a blinding flash; she couldn't help but watch with grim fascination as the revenant continued to struggle forward despite the unwavering blast of fire pouring from Solas's staff. It continued on even as its body blackened and charred, as it dropped to one knee and then struggled to continue on all fours. It finally collapsed, and she watched the horrible red light wink out from its eyes.

Tephra shivered despite the heat, staring at the body that had been rendered unrecognizable by the fire. Solas caught her by the arm long enough to arrest her attention, as he reminded her, “There will be more of those, if you do not close the rift.”

“I'm on it,” she assured, as she pulled free and began toward it.

Neither soldiers nor bandits lingered close to the rift, leaving her path open and free of conflict. She could feel the power of it, the same as before, coming off of the rift in waves and pulsing through the mark on her hand. But this time it felt different — less chaotic, more controlled, more in her control. It was as though she could feel the Veil itself, like finding a wall in the dark, unseen but there. And in it, she felt the tear.

Where there had been pain before, now there was simply discomfort — like wearing a glove tailored to fit another's hand. Still, she focused on the mark, focused on the sensation of it opening. It sparked to life, crackling and hissing with magic.

Tephra lifted her marked hand, and _reached_ — the power burst from her in a stream of verdant energy, and began pouring into the rift. It was easier than before the Breach; it didn't feel as overwhelming, or incomprehensible.

Something had changed.

It was as though the mark had adapted to her, as though it submitted to her will. Or perhaps, the magic had changed her — was changing her. How would she know if it had? She knew nothing of magic, only that it was an invasive, that it flooded her senses and crowded out her thoughts, until there was little left but pure instinct. It was wholly foreign to her; she could no longer discern where she ended, and the magic of the mark began.

_Focus._

Tephra took a slow breath, and turned her hand, curling her fingers in the same manner as if she meant to grasp a rope. All she needed was to hook it, and—

One of the bandits barreled past her, and towards the mages — towards Solas, who'd turned his attention back to wagons, to strengthening the barriers. She didn't have time to shout a warning as the bandit tackled into him, sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Fear locked her breath and stalled her focus, as she watched the two men grappling on the ground. The bandit was armed with a dagger, which was precariously held at bay mere inches from Solas's throat. He had the bandit by the wrist with both hands as he struggled to wrest the larger man's weapon away.

_Do something, you gaping idiot._

The magic pouring from her hand tugged at her, as she stepped away from the rift and toward her companion. They were not far from her, only a matter of meters; it would take only a moment to cross the distance.

An arrow caught the bandit in the shoulder; he slackened against the apostate, losing his grip on the dagger as he fumbled to grasp at the arrow in his shoulder. The weapon tumbled into the grass. It gave Solas just enough of an opening to shove the bandit off of him.

He met her gaze as he wiped blood from his mouth, and smiled.

 _That fucking_ —

“The rift,” he reminded, almost casually.

— _insufferable ass_.

“Yes, of course!” she shot back with a grin, unable to quell her sarcasm. “It's not as if I was _worried_ or—”

Solas had only just begun to rise from the ground when the bandit rolled back toward him, and sank the dagger into his thigh.

Time staggered as she watched the bandit yank the dagger free, as blood began soaking in the fabric of his leggings. It was coming too quickly for her to think; she gaped at him uselessly. One of the soldiers charged the bandit before he could continue his assault, driving him back with a flurry of blows, but all she could focus on was the boneless stumble of her companion as he sank to the ground.

_The rift._

She gripped the magic connecting the mark to the rift, and _pulled_ , tearing the rift and collapsing it almost carelessly in her panic as she wrenched herself from the connection. A foolish thing to do, surely — she had no idea if such an action would do more harm than good. Still, the rift collapsed inward and sealed itself. She did not watch the action as she launched herself toward the fallen apostate.

The soldier was finishing off the bandit as she came to a skidding halt at Solas's side, and dropped to her knees.

His pant leg was completely saturated with blood. She did not have to see the wound to know that the bandit had struck the artery in his thigh. The color was quickly leaving his face, and he'd gone glassy-eyed and lethargic.

A strange rushing noise seemed to fill her head, as shock settled over her.

She had promised to protect him, just as she had promised to protect her brother, and once again she was met with abject failure.

She had doomed him with her empty words, she had—

 _No_ , she thought, with sudden ferocity. _This is not happening again._

With a sharp yank, she tore open the blood-soaked fabric and bared his torn thigh. She dug her fingers down into the wound, feeling for the source of the bleeding. The urgency of the situation left no room for gentleness. Solas's entire body gave a shuddering heave, and he gave a ragged groan of pain. His eyelids fluttered, as he teetered on the brink of consciousness, nearly passing out from the shock of the pain.

Her fingers seemed to slip uselessly in his flesh, working down through the torn muscles, until finally she grasped hold of the torn artery. With her free hand, she turned Solas's face back towards her.

“Hey — hey, stay with me,” she urged, as she held tight to the slippery artery. “I've got you.”

The soldier was at her side now, as well as Varric. The dwarf stood over them with his crossbow primed; his focus was entirely on keeping any potential attackers at bay while she tended to their fallen comrade.

The soldier was a bare-faced elf marked as a medic. He acted without hesitation, and tore a long strip of cloth from his cloak. He quickly wound it around Solas's thigh above the wound, and tied it off tightly. Still, she did not release her hold on the artery for fear that the tourniquet wouldn't be enough to staunch the artery.

_Take a breath, and think._

She hadn't had time to replenish her supplies, to hunt for the medicinal plants needed for various healing salves and tonics, let alone to make any sort of hemostatic powder. And with the battle raging around them, it wasn't as though she could prep him for surgical intervention.

_Cauterization._

It was his best shot — his only shot — but Solas had grown incoherent, and had begun to mutter to himself in Elven. The words pricked at her ears, wholly unfamiliar to her, but she could not shake the feeling that that she should have understood it, as though comprehension was right on the edge of her understanding.

“ _Solas_ ,” Tephra snapped, gently tapping at his cheek in an attempt to stir him out of lethargy. He continued to struggle to remain conscious, as she urged, “You need to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding.”

Solas blinked slowly, and his words came thick and slurred as he said, “I woke too weak.”

_What—?_

“Solas, listen to me,” she urged. “If I let go of this, you'll die. _Quickly_. As in imminent and permanent death. Do you understand me?”

His eyelids fluttered, and his gaze slipped past her as he teetered on the edge of consciousness.

Panic coursed through her, chased closely by frustration. Tephra gripped his ear with her free hand, and _pulled_. His attention snapped back to her, as she asserted, “I'm not losing anyone else today, Solas. Do you hear me? I need — I need you to stay with me.”

It was either the tug on his ear, or the panic in her voice, that finally cut through his disorientation and secured his attention. Solas gave a slow nod.

Tephra gave him a tight smile, “Magic up your hand, then. I'll do the rest.”

She could only hope that it would be enough.

Solas lifted his hand; it shook and trembled with weakness, but his palm sparked alight with cold, blue fire. She released her hold of the artery as she grasped his wrist, before shoving his palm down over the wound. His whole torso seized up as he contorted with pain, mouth agape and breathless. She felt the mark sparking between her palm, against the back of his hand as she held it there. When the magic subsided, his whole body slackened as he passed out.

The medic caught hold of him, and eased him to the ground.

She wiped at the bloody wound, which was still a gaping pit of torn flesh, but was relieved to see that the bleeding had ceased.

Tephra let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding, and sat back on her heels. She inhaled deeply, and let out a slow, ragged breath.

It was only then, in the sudden silence, that she realized that the fighting was over. She hadn't noticed Cassandra's arrival, until the woman was kneeling beside her and leaning over the apostate, “Is he—”

“Alive,” Tephra assured. She turned to the medic, and clasped his arm, “Ma serannas, falon—”

“Kazem, my lady,” the elf replied. “He will need to be monitored.”

“Yes, and moved,” she agreed.

“Come,” the Seeker bid, as she stooped to grasp Solas under the armpits. The medic moved to grasp him by the heels.

Together, they lifted and carried him toward the wagons.

“The supply wagon,” Tephra directed, before ducking ahead of them to open the wide, rear doors.

It was solid wooden structure, fairly large and filled to the brim with supplies. Still, there was enough room to get inside and lay him out on an array of bundled furs and leathers. Probably not the most comfortable of beds, but it would have to do.

The medic held Solas upright against himself as Cassandra climbed up beside her. Working together, they eased him into the wagon as the medic followed after. As the Seeker laid him out atop the makeshift bed, several items tumbled free from an interior pocket in Solas's jerkin — a pen, a small inkwell, a scroll case, a rolled up slip of paper.

Tephra bent to retrieve them, before kneeling beside Solas and slipping the items back inside his jerkin. She did not have to open the paper to know it was the drawing she'd given him the other night.

The medic bent over Solas's torso and pressed an ear to his chest, listening to his breathing. “Pulse?”

She ignored the curious swell and tug of emotion between her ribs, as she reached for Solas's wrist. She held it firmly, and felt for a rhythm beneath the heel of his palm. She grimaced when she found it, “A bit weak.”

“Pray he has not lost too much blood,” Kazem replied. “He may yet live though, if that is the will of the Maker.”

Tephra studied the elf with sudden scrutiny; his dark face was unmarked by vallaslin. However, he was marked by scarification — purposeful markings which swept from the corners of his mouth and up across the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

“My clan hails from the Wandering Hills, my lady,” he said, taking note of her inspection. If he was bothered by it, he made no show of it as he returned her gaze with a placid stare. “I did not take the bloodwriting when I came of age. We do not keep so strictly to the old ways as some of our people do.”

 _Dalish, from the Anderfels_. She had never met one before, but despite her sudden interest in the elf and his origin, now was certainly not the time for investigating it.

“His thigh needs to be properly sutured,” she noted.

Solas's magic had cauterized the artery efficiently, but the wound was still a yawning pit were the taut skin pulled away from exposed, torn muscle. Blood and clear fluids wept from it slowly.

“I'll see to it,” Kazem replied, as he busied himself with setting out supplies from his pack.

“Herald, a word,” Cassandra said, before retreating out of the wagon to leave the medic to his work.

She looked to the medic, and asked, “Have you got him, until I return?”

“Of course,” he replied, wholly absorbed with his work

She found the Seeker waiting for her outside the wagon. The soldiers and scouts had assembled as well — they were bloodied and harried, but most of them seemed accounted for. Still, she asked, “How many dead?”

“Six,” the Seeker responded. “Four of ours, and two refugees who were caught outside the barriers.”

“They're all ours,” she corrected, despite herself. “And the wounded?”

Something shifted and softened in the Seeker's grim gaze, but she did not dwell on it.

“Numerous, my lady,” one of the soldiers replied. “But nothing we can't handle.”

“The bandits have been driven off. What few remain alive, that is,” Cassandra informed. “Still, we should not linger here.”

“Agreed. If there is a more direct route that we can take to Haven, I suggest we do,” she advised. “For the sake of the wounded, we should return to Haven as quickly as we can.”

“We'll cut through the forest, and continue on to Haven by way of the Imperial Highway,” the Seeker agreed.

“And the dead, my lady?” the soldier asked. “Do we leave them?”

“ _No_ ,” Cassandra interjected, vehemently.

The Seeker met her gaze with a tight frown; she recalled her own insistence on burying the apostate and the child, to give them that dignity. It dawned on her that the Seeker was looking to her for support, which sent a complicated mix of emotions coursing through her. She gave the woman a stiff nod.

Cassandra straightened as she turned back to the soldiers, and continued, “We leave none of our own behind. They will be given proper funerals.

The soldiers looked to her.

Tephra frowned, and gave the soldier a sharp reprimand, “You heard the Seeker.”

“Yes, Herald.”

Cassandra turned back to Tephra, “And Solas?”

“I'll stay with him,” she replied.

“Someone should,” Cassandra agreed. Her attention shifted to Tephra's ear, and her frown softened, “That needs to be sutured. Open wounds breed infection.”

Tephra felt gently at the tip of her ear, at the sticky blood around the wound site. “It's just a love tap. I'll thank Varric for it, later.”

“ _Varric?_ ”

“I got in his way,” she assured, dispelling the Seeker's sudden anger. “Suture it, then, if you insist.”

Cassandra huffed, before removing her pack to rummage for her medical supplies.

Tephra leaned against the wagon, and held her hair aside as Cassandra began to swab the wound and surrounding skin with an antiseptic-soaked cloth. She wouldn't have bothered with more than cleaning the wound herself — scarring did not bother her in the slightest — but she was too tired to argue the Seeker's point. Still, Cassandra made quick work of it.

“It may yet scar,” the Seeker noted, surveying her work with a critical eye. She straightened, and packed away her supplies. “If you need anything — if his condition changes—”

“Of course,” Tephra replied. “And if there's another attack, inform me at once.”

The Seeker gave her a sharp nod, “At once.”

With that, Tephra turned to climb back into the wagon. The medic had finished suturing Solas's wound, and was currently applying a poultice.

“This will need to be changed in a few hours,” he noted.

“I have my own supplies. You should tend to the other wounded,” she advised.

Kazem met her gaze, and for a moment she was certain he'd meant to argue against leaving. Instead, he simply nodded, “As you command, Herald.”

She had not meant it as a command, but she was too tired to argue semantics.

The medic left without further argument, and closed the wagon doors tightly behind him. The only source of light was a lantern, which hung from the low ceiling. There was little room to navigate the wagon, as it had been stuffed nearly full of supplies, but there was space enough around Solas's makeshift bed to settle beside him. She slid her pack off and set it aside, before looking over the medic's work. She carefully lifted the poultice to peek at the wound beneath.

The medic had a good suturing technique. He'd had cut away a good portion of fabric from Solas's pant leg, for ease of access, and he'd cleaned the wound site. The poultice would be sufficient to keep infection at bay, but it would need to be secured. She reapplied the dressing, and then reached for her pack to pull out a roll of linen bandages.

Carefully, she lifted his thigh. She positioned herself so that she could prop his leg atop her thigh, and began to wind the linen around his leg. The compression would keep the poultice in place, as well as to discourage any further bleeding. When she finished, she touched her palms to his face and neck, then beneath his jerkin — he'd gone clammy, and his body temperature had dropped. It prompted her to seek out blankets among the supplies. She retrieved several heavy woolen blankets and laid them over him.

Rummaging through her pack, she retrieved a waterskin. She added a portion of honey and elfroot to it, and gave it a good shake. For all the blood he'd lost, he would need the fluid replacement. She lifted his head, and shifted her arm beneath it to cradle him as she pressed the waterskin to his mouth.

“You must drink,” Tephra said softly, pouring the mixture over his lips and into his mouth in a slow trickle.

She recalled the voice in the dark, before she woke in the prison, and a flask held to her mouth as she was bid to drink. She had thought it a dream before, but now she was certain that it must have been him. Varric had let it slip that Solas had watched over her and did what he could in keeping her alive after the Breach, as the mark tried to claim her life.

Of course it would have been him.

And now here she was, sitting over him and doing what she could to keep him alive.

She could have laughed at it all — at how everything seemed to have come full circle — if things hadn't been so dire.

She set the waterskin aside, and gently stroked the length of his throat, as she tried to induce a swallowing reflex. It was an effective technique, and he was a far more compliant patient than she'd been. She gently laid his head back down, and settled back against the nearest crate.

Tephra laid her head back against the hard wood, and let out a slow, trembling sigh. Her whole body was vibrating with fatigue and anxiety. They had lost more people — could have lost many more, had events transpired otherwise — had nearly lost him. He could have already been lost; such wounds tended to give slow, lingering deaths.

She brought a shaking hand to her face, covering her eyes — who was there to see if she cried, what did it matter to hide her weakness? Still, she covered them, and fought the urge to cry.

“I don't know how I'm supposed to do this,” she confessed, quietly. “I don't know how to keep them all safe. I need—”

What, exactly?

_Him?_

Insufferable, and critical, and _fascinating_ — he was unlike anyone she'd ever met before, and she needed him. Just as she needed Varric's cutting wit, and gentle concern. Just as she needed Cassandra, whose hard-won respect — what little she'd earned — bolstered and heartened her in a way that she couldn't begin to put to words. If she was to be this — to be their Herald — she needed them, their ballast, to keep her grounded. To keep her, _her._

Tephra hesitated, before placing her palm to his brow. Her fingers cupped the smooth curve of his scalp, and she let her thumb stroke gently at his eyebrow.

“Please, don't die,” she entreated, quietly.

Silence settled over her, as the wagon began to rumble and sway. It would take at least another day of hard travel to return to Haven, but that mattered little if he did not survive the night.

_Don't think of that._

If he made it through the night, if he had not lost too much blood, then he would live — and she wouldn't have broken her promise to him.

 _Not yet, at least_ , she thought, ruefully.

“I'll make a deal with you,” she bargained, despite the tangled knot of emotion which settled in her chest. “Don't die, and I'll tell you a story — my story.”

She had never breathed a word of any of it to anyone, not even to her clan, but she would give it to him nonetheless, if—

“You can have it,” she offered, as though he could hear her. As if words alone could draw him back from the brink of death. “You can have it, if you don't die.”

Solas gave no discernible reaction; his breath came slow, but steady.

Tephra settled back against the crate, “I suppose it's only fair, since you've been so generous with yours.”

Where else could she begin, but where it had all gone wrong?  
  
  


———  
  
  


Something had gone very wrong; of that much, he was certain.

He'd been thrown violently into the dreaming, and even that was wrong. The Fade was muddled and formless, and his awareness and sense of control seemed a distant, unimportant thing.

He could not recall the mechanism of injury, only the sudden loss — the sensation of the ground falling away beneath him. A too-bright sky overhead, even though it had been night.

He did not summon the forest, and yet it cropped up around him, looming darkly. All the color had gone away, and the shadows blurred like watery ink.

He did not know this place; he did not know what had drawn him here, or where to go.

It was the shouting that stirred him from the indolent haze.

He followed the sounds of conflict to a small clearing, which housed a modest campsite. There was a small aravel, and a well-tended fire. An unbridled halla dozed beneath a great oak. There were sleeping rolls and fur blankets, and several books lay open, as though someone had only just begun to read from them. There was no one, and yet he could hear it — panicked shouting, and more distantly battle cries.

Once again, he found himself in a memory not his own.

Beneath the shouting, there was something else — a quiet voice, recounting a story, but the words were indistinct and far away. The scene itself was muddled; some aspects were indistinct and ill-remembered, while other details — such as the books — were in precise detail.

The shouting was overlaid by soft, indiscernible voices. Bodies formed, indistinct as wisps, and moved about the camp. Two large, and two small. The apparitions mimed the recalled events — as they ate, as they laughed and talked, until they began to gain more form. The two adults remained hazy, but it was clear that one was male, and the other female. The woman had long black hair, loose and wild, where the man had stark-white hair, which was neatly braided back from his forehead. Their faces were blank spaces, blurred and formless.

The boy, however — his face was clear. Round and healthy, and familiar. A toddler, once more, as the dream before.

Then—

The girl was laid out on her belly, scribbling on parchment and practicing her handwriting as the man instructed her. Shaggy white hair framed her little face. Tephra, but not — only the form of her self-memory.

Were the two adults her parents? Why were they so poorly shaped?

“I don't remember their faces,” she remarked, as if he'd asked her outright. “Just his.”

Solas moved to crouch beside her, watching her write. “He's your brother?”

“Yes,” she replied, softly. “He looks like mamae, and I look like papae. I remember that much.”

_I shouldn't be here._

Yet something had weakened him immeasurably, that he could neither wake nor shape the Fade around him. Dimly, he recalled the ambush. The rift. The bandit who'd caught him off guard.

He looked down, to see the blood running down his thigh.

_Ah, yes._

He was not dead, at least.

They, however — the woman doting over the toddler, bathing him in a wooden bucket, and the man sitting beside her — he could not shake the obvious truth that they were.

Solas rested his elbows on his knees, fidgeting with his fingertips with a hesitance unbefitting his usual scrutinous nature when it came to encountering memories in the Fade.

Were her memories really so different from any others he'd encountered over the long span of his life? Where had this hesitance come from?

“Guilt,” she replied.

“You aren't her,” he said. “What are you?”

“The echo.”

If this was not an invasion of her dreams, then how had he stumbled onto this memory? This forest was not the forest they'd been attacked in. The vegetation was all wrong for this climate.

With what little strength he had, he reached with his senses to feel for deception, but found none. Neither spirit, nor demon. She — as the rest — was memory in its rawest form in the Fade. A primordial mechanism, no different than the trees or the campfire that's been shaped into being. He did not sense the Herald in the dreaming, though he was certain he heard her voice at the edge of all things.

Was he too weak to sense her there, if she was dreaming? Or if her dreaming had not summoned this memory, then whose will had?

“I don't know,” the girl replied, stifling a yawn. “But it happens soon.”

He regarded the apparition with curious frown, “What happens?”

“All of the bad parts.”

If he could not disentangle himself from the memory, perhaps he could alter it. He imagined the current calm of the scene extending, uninterrupted, until the children fell fast asleep, followed closely by the parents.

“That isn't how it happened,” the girl intoned.

He was too weakened to override the dream, and it left him frustratingly at the mercy of whatever terrible things the apparition meant to show him.

After that night in the woods outside of Haven, he'd known of the grief she carried within her. He had not wanted to ask; he had not wanted to look too closely. The implications of her emotions, the depths of such, were a threat to the path he walked. They would only bring detours, or worse — diversions.

And, yet—

_I would have asked her. I should have._

He still could, but it wouldn't mean the same. Even if she never knew of his having prior knowledge, he would still feel guilty for having learned it this way. He wasn't sure why that even mattered to him, only that it felt like a breach of trust — hard-won, and so vigilantly guarded. Trust he'd been so carefully attempting to build with her. Trust he would certainly lose, had she known of his breaches into her most personal memories.

“Then show me, if you must,” Solas relented.

The scene shifted.

The boy was fast asleep. The girl was stretched out beside him, gazing up at the stars with sleepy, dark eyes. The woman was beside her, pointing out constellations and recounting tales associated with them.

The man stiffened, suddenly, before lurching to his feet. “Emma lath, the _wards_ ,” he called to his wife, urgently.

Without a word, the woman rose swiftly and gathered her weapons — a bow, a full quiver. She shouldered them, and then reached for a short sword. “How many?”

The girl was on her feet now, trying and failing to hide her fear as she looked between her parents with wide, dark eyes.

“Too many,” the man despaired, as he rushed to them from where he'd been poring over his books.

“Fucking bandits,” the woman cursed. “I will buy you time, so that you can take them—”

“It won't be enough,” he stated, with a finality that brooked no further argument. He gathered up a bundle of cloth, as he called to his daughter, “Come, my little arrow. It is time to go.”

She came to him, trembling. As he wound the cloth around her torso, she asked, “Are you coming too? And mamae?”

“Yes, but you must go first,” the man replied, and Solas could hear in his voice that the man had truly believed it.

When he finished, the man lifted the sleeping toddler and secured him in the sling, knotting it securely. He moved to the Halla, which had stirred from its sleep and risen. He quickly re-saddled the beast, before lifting the girl up atop it. The woman quickly secured small satchels to the saddle — no doubt supplies for the children.

War cries poured in from the darkness.

The woman turned on her heel, and drove the sword into the dirt at her feet before readying her bow. “They're on us!”

The woman loosed arrows at an unbelievable pace — he could see where Tephra had learned it. Arrows shot through the campsite in response. The halla stamped its hooves, but stood its ground.

“Papae, I'm scared,” she said, clutching the reins with one hand, and reaching down to him with the other.

“Be not afraid, my daughter, and live,” he said, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips. “Protect your brother, and _live._ ”

He struck the beast and sent it darting off into the forest.

He felt himself pulled along with it at a disorienting speed, as the small clearing faded away. He did not see their deaths, which meant she hadn't, either.

_A small mercy._

The Fade was a rushing, shifting dark blur. It went on endlessly, with nothing but the pounding of the halla's hooves as it ran — until it ceased.

A different forest, now. How far had the halla taken the children from their parents?

“I think it was trying to take us home,” the girl's voice offered, from the darkness. “We rode for many days. I wanted to go back, but the halla would not listen.”

He saw them, then. The beast was settled against a tree, and the children were curled up together at its side, sleeping.

“She tried to, at least.”

Of course the horror would not have ended there. Not in this terrible, blighted world. Not that this horror was terribly different from the horrors of the world before this one, only that he could not bear to see more. Whole, or not, he could not abide the suffering of children anymore than she could.

“I do not wish to see more,” he pleaded, even though his objections were an exercise in futility.

“Alas, so long as the music plays, we dance,” the child replied. The voice had shifted, momentarily, and sounded more like a spirit than the child from memory. “So long as she is telling, we must show it.”

_Who is telling it?_

The halla staggered to its feet, suddenly. The movement sent the children rolling, awakening them from their slumber. The little boy began to fuss, but quieted at the sight of the shambling horror as it approached. The girl scooped up her brother and scrambled back into the rotted hollow of the tree.

Anxiety clutched raggedly at his chest as his fear for her grew, but he quickly banished it. _She does not die here_ , he reassured himself. _She is not dead_. And he'd seen the boy older than this — he did not die here, either.

Still, he found himself placing himself between the children, and the massive arachnid which lumbered toward the halla.

The beast stamped at the ground, as it lowered its head to display its antlers threateningly. The spider was not deterred. It chittered and hissed, slashing at the air with its forelimbs in response. When it moved to skirt around the beast, toward the children, the halla moved into its trajectory. It shook its head, swiping at the spider to drive it back. When the arachnid attempted to lunge past, the halla sent it scrambling backwards with a vicious kick. The halla forced it further back still, with sweeping strikes from its antlers.

The arachnid gave up its attempts to reach the easy prey, and turned its focus on the halla. It lunged for the beast, throwing itself upon the halla's back. The beast bellowed, as it thrashed and bucked in an attempt to throw the arachnid off of itself. The spider scrabbled for purchase as it lost its grip, and tumbled to the ground. Its claws tore deep trenches through the halla's flank. The beast bucked and arched, stabbing deep into the arachnid's belly as they scrambled apart.

The two creatures circled one another warily, both bleeding profusely. Then, the arachnid went into a frenzy of blows as it skittered around the halla, stabbing the beast with it's long claws wherever it could before darting back from each sweeping strike of the halla's antlers.

“Stop it! You're killing her!” the girl wailed from the hollow in the tree.

Her despair tore through him, and he could not account for the trembling of his hands.

The arachnid lunged again, feinting and dodging around the halla's kicks. It leapt back onto the beast's back, and went for the jugular. It mandibles sunk deep, and Tephra's wailing scream tore through the dream. The halla bucked and thrashed, but could not free itself from the spider's grasp, so it threw itself to the ground and rolled until the spider released its hold. As both creatures struggled to rise, the halla gave a sudden jerk of its head. Its antlers stabbed deep into the arachnid's skull, piercing through the chitin and deep into its brain. It slackened, and sank to the ground, twitching and jerking in the throes of death.

The halla rose on shaking legs, and limped back to where the children remained hidden in the tree. Blood soaked the entirety of its neck and breast, and ran freely down its forelocks, stark red against the white of its fur. The boy watched from the hollow as his sister climbed out, and approached the dying halla.

Her whole body shuddered with sobs as she held her hands out to meet the halla's bowing head, wrapping her arms around it as the beast pressed the long line of its face against her torso. The halla's knees gave out, and it sank to the ground, dragging the girl with it. On her knees, she continued to hug the beast, as it shuddered and its breaths became rapid.

“Please, don't die,” the girl begged, quietly.

Somewhere beyond the dreaming, he heard those words echoed by Tephra — a quiet plea which pierced through the Fade.

She held the beast until well after it died, crying quietly into its fur. When she drew away, her coat and the carrying cloth were soaked in the halla's blood. Her face was ashen and pale, but she quickly collected herself.

“Ea revas, ma falon,” she said quietly, as she stood. “May you run forever free in the great Beyond.”

She kept her composure as busied herself with sorting through the packs and satchels affixed to the halla's saddle. They were too numerous for her to carry all herself, and she was clearly aware that lingering was unsafe, as the corpse would soon draw the attention of predators.

_Reverant, and sharp._

How could one so young be so — _this?_

“I'm eight,” the apparition replied, with all of the indignance befitting one of such terribly short years. For a moment, he could see that flash of her in the apparition's face, but it was quickly gone again.

When she finished consolidating supplies into a single pack, which was neither too large nor too heavy for her to carry, she slipped the pack onto her back. She returned to the tree, and held out her hands to the toddler, “Come, little bird. We have to go.”

The toddler climbed out of the hollow and into the arms of his sister. She secured him in the sling, and smoothed his dark hair with bloody hands, “We have to find somewhere safe to be, until they come back to find us. I'm going to keep you safe, until then.”

With one last look at her beloved companion, she began to walk. In her small hand, a bone dagger.

He could do nothing else, but follow.  
  
  


———  
  
  


She kept vigil long into the night, straining to not succumb to sleep. She checked his breathing and pulse each time he grew too still despite the rumbling of the wagon. She'd left him long enough to retrieve her bow and quiver, and kept it at her side in anticipation of further bandit attacks.

The caravan did not stop to make camp; they rode through the night at her behest, switching off wagon drivers when they grew too tired. The refugees slept in the other wagons, huddled together. The soldiers slept in shifts, except for Cassandra, who remained awake with her through the night. The Seeker did not chide her for her sleeplessness, as she had before, but thankfully left her in peace to keep watch over the apostate.

She had not meant to fall asleep — had not realized she had — until the jolt of the wagon brought her head snapping up.

Her pulse was pounding in her ears as her heart beat furiously in her chest, as the fear and alarm flooded through her. Remnants of a dream clung to the edges of her mind; the dying halla, the long walk, the wych elm, the ruins, and then the sea where her brother had—

_Stop._

Tephra rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms, as she took a slow, steadying breath. She was accustomed to the repeated variations of her nightmares, their predictable paths, but not so on such thorough probings through the sum of her childhood. Her nightmares tended to focus on singular events — not all of them _at once_.

Perhaps telling the stories to him, speaking them aloud, had summoned them from the depths of her memories — ripped old wounds afresh, so that they followed her into her exhausted sleep.

Her attention shifted first to Solas, who was still sleeping soundly beside her, then to the occupant she had not noticed.

Varric had cleared a space for himself and sat settled atop a heap of blankets, with a large book in his lap. He'd brought extra lanterns with him, which sat atop the crate beside him. He was writing — _always_ writing, she liked that about him — and had not noticed she'd woken. She watched him for a time, scribbling away furiously as though his hand could not keep pace with his thoughts.

He didn't know that she loved to write, too. She would have to confess one day, when he inevitably caught her at it. It was not easy for her to give of herself, to offer her secrets up, so she swallowed the confession, and simply asked, “Is it a good story?”

Varric did not look up as he finished chasing whatever thought attempted to escape him, and said, “Not sure yet. It's still working itself out.” When he finished, he set the pen inside the book to mark his place as he shut it. He met her gaze with tired eyes, and asked, “How's your head?”

She gave a quiet laugh, and fiddled at the stitches in her ear, “I've had worse.”

It was then that she noticed the bandages wrapped around his head, covering his forehead. There was dried blood at his temple. A sudden fury sparked in the pit of her gut, and she hoped whoever had hurt him — bandit or demon — was dead.

She motioned at his head, “And yours?”

Varric gave a gravelly laugh, as he parroted, “I've had worse.”

Tephra arched her back, shifting her legs and stretching them out. She felt far too stiff to have simply nodded off. “How long have I been sleeping?”

Varric cleared his throat, and averted his gaze as he admitted, “Most of the day.”

She nearly toppled over, as she echoed, “ _Day?_ ” She gaped at the dwarf, “Why did no one—”

The dwarf was laughing again, waving a hand dismissively. “Relax, kid. The medics have been in and out a few times, even Cassandra. They had it handled. Our elf here's gonna be fine, if a little worse for wear.”

Tephra slumped back against the crate, as the sudden relief quickly deflated her outrage. She gave a long, slow exhale, and rested her head back against the wood. _Thank_ —

Who?

_Whoever's listening._

“You should do more of that, kid,” he advised. “We're not far off from Haven now. Take a breath, and rest. You need it.”

Tephra drew her knees back up to her chest, and folded her arms atop them. “I don't like resting anymore, not since—” Well, he knew. “Since the Breach, my mind never shuts off when things get too still. I start thinking about all the bad shit. The mistakes.”

 _Rambling, again_. And she didn't even have alcohol to blame for it this time.

“We all make them, Snowflake. Learn from them, but don't dwell.”

“You say it as though it's easy,” she huffed.

All of the dead lingered at the edges of her peripheral, patient in their haunting.

The dwarf gave a grim smile, before producing a flask from his coat pocket. He reached across the sleeping apostate to hand it to her. “Drinking helps with that.”

“True, but I'm not certain I can spend the entirety of my time — all this Herald shit — _smashed_ ,” Tephra laughed.

“Says who?” the dwarf retorted, with a crooked grin.

She twisted off the cap, and took a long swig. It was neither ale, nor wine, but a good proper whiskey. She winced at the burn, and shot the dwarf a mock-accusatory look, “You've been holding out on me.”

“Supplies are low,” he laughed. “I'm more generous when I'm not giving up my personal supply.”

She drank from the flask until she'd emptied it, and was grateful for the swift inebriation afforded by her empty stomach. She did not have to think of the dead to summon them.

“That templar,” she mused.

“You'll have to be more specific,” the dwarf chuckled. “We're up to our eyeballs in them these days.”

“After the fire,” Tephra specified.

She had purposely avoided thinking of it, until just now. She wasn't sure what brought him to mind, but now all she could see was his bloodied face, as he gasped for air and drowned in his own blood, eyes wide and—

_Green._

Bright, and deep, like her brothers. She wasn't sure why that mattered, only that it did, and the sudden weight of it crushed the breath out of her.

“I didn't have to kill him,” she admitted, more to herself than to Varric. She gave a breathless, joyless laugh, “He was already captured. He was—”

The sound of his wet gasps were forever burned into her mind.

“—so young.”

She could not keep the shaking out of her voice as she continued, “And the others — the soldiers, the scouts. I told them to protect the children. That one the mage killed—”

 _What the fuck was his name?_ She was angry that it already had slipped from her mind.

“Bjorn,” the dwarf offered, in a subdued tone.

“ _Bjorn_ , yes. He—”

“Enough, Teph,” Varric interjected. “That's not a road you need to go down. Shit happens, and we rarely have a say in it. He saved that kid because he _wanted_ to save him.”

She lapsed into a bruised silence, nursing her grief.

She could, perhaps eventually, get over the shock of her first revenge killing. She had killed before, yes — but it had always been to protect her clan. She had never carried out an act of vengeance before, but she supposed it was only matter of time in this terrible world; only a matter of time before the last vestiges of her naiveté were stripped from her. People killed each other every day for less — that was a truth she learned early. At least she had done so to avenge the deaths of the innocent.

That, she could at least attempt to justify.

But the soldier? Her order, her responsibility — his death was on her.

“Look, I saw how it went down,” Varric said, breaking the silence which had settled between them. “He made a choice. He could've dropped the kid and saved his own ass, but he didn't. Maybe you inspired him to do that, or maybe he had it in him all along. We don't always get to choose how our story ends, but he did.”

When she still said nothing, he continued, “People do bad shit, and other people die. That never ends, kid. As much as it pains me to admit it, Chuckles here is right. You can't save them all. And it's shit that they put you in the position to think you have to. Save what you can, and hold onto it. Don't let the dead take you with them.”

She held her tongue a long moment, before she snarked, “Is all that shit in your book, or did you just pull it out of your ass?”

Varric gave a sharp laugh, before replying, “Nah, I'd rather quote you. What was it you said to Solas? Right before you got him to fix himself.”

Tephra flushed, as she tried and failed to suppress an embarrassed smile, “I believe I said, “Magic up your hand, I'll do the rest”?”

To his credit, the dwarf attempted to keep his cool and suppress his amusement. It lasted all five seconds, until she snorted — and the they both were laughing.

“Yeah, that shit's going in my book.”  
  
  


———  
  
  


Long after the bear, after countless days of walking — the passage of time was impossible to gauge in the Fade, but he supposed it had to be days, perhaps even weeks of travel — the girl stumbled upon ruins deep in the forest.

Her path had brought her down out of the forested mountain, deep into a much older forest. From the size alone, he could tell that many of the towering giants were hundreds, if not thousands, of years old. It was a dense, old-growth forest, with a thick flush of bright green moss carpeting much of the forest floor.

It was there that she found a refuge, of sorts.

He knew the stone pylons on sight — towering stone structures, which were intricately carved with _her_ draconic visage. But the girl did not know what they were meant to herald, and stared up at them with naked awe. She would have felt the old magics resonating across her skin as she passed through, but she wouldn't have known what it was. To her, it would have been nothing more than odd cold chill shivering through her on a warm day.

But through the magic, the sentinels would have known at once that the temple grounds had been breached. As he followed after her, it was plain to see that little of the surface temple remained, beyond a few crumbling walls and alcoves. Yet he was certain that much of it remained intact below, along with those who waited — sleeping through the centuries as he had — and those who'd remained awake to watch over them.

The sentinels would have been alerted to their presence.

Yet, as he watched her memories — as she found a sturdy stone alcove to camp in — he did not see a trace of the sentinels. He wasn't surprised; they rarely made their presence known to outsiders unless intervention was necessary.

_Had they ever made their presence known to the children?_

“No one ever came for us,” the girl responded, where she laid curled by the fire, with the boy tucked against her chest.

Curled together, mirroring the exact position she still slept in, all these years later, as though she still held tight to the ghost of his memory.

All he could think of was the many other children he'd seen from uthenera, who'd shivered into the nights, lost and lingering in despair. Severed, made mortal, made less with each following generation. With no one to guide them, with nothing but the stories handed down to the them. Stories, which fractured further with each generation.

“We didn't have anyone to teach us any different,” the girl intoned. “All I had was what I could remember, so I taught him what little I knew.”

The correlation was not lost on him. And for all of his anger, his despair, his estrangement from the Dalish, from all of the modern elves — he could not blame them for what they had become. They had become such _because_ of him, and that was the true source of his own grief. He looked on them — on _her_ — and all he could see was his own mistakes staring back at him.

He wanted this to be done with — for it to be over. _It is too much._

When his thoughts were met with silence, he realized something had shifted; the apparition no longer responded to his thoughts. The dream — the Fade itself — grew sharper, coming into startling focus.

It wasn't that his strength had returned, only that suddenly and at once, he felt Tephra's presence there. And with it, the entire scene shifted with a force that left him reeling, as he found himself staggering ankle-deep in the surf of the Waking Sea.

The boy was older now — eight or nine years of age, if he had to guess — wading in the water as he hunted the shallows for shellfish. A handsome-faced youth, skinny as a reed but healthy, hopping along in the water like a sea bird hunting for prey.

Solas turned to find Tephra, sitting in the sand and working to repair a fishing net. It was clearly made by her hand — crude, but efficient work. The sun was low on the horizon, indicating either dawn or dusk. It was difficult to tell the difference, in the dreaming.

She was here now, perhaps he could—

“Tephra,” he beckoned, and reached with what strength he could to make himself known — to make himself _present_ in her dream.

His stomach leapt into his throat when she looked up and frowned, but she simply looked past him. The moment passed, and she turned her focus back to the net in her lap.

At least this scene was calm; perhaps he'd seen the worst of it already.

The boy came bounding in from the surf.

Where Tephra had grown to be startlingly still and wary, the boy was all wild energy and enthusiasm. He tossed his fishing net into the sand beside her, which was only partially filled. He crouched before her, hands cupped together and held out to her in offering, grinning ear to ear.

Tephra looked up from her work, clearly impatient. She blew a stray strand of hair from where it hung in her face, and asked, “What have you found now? Another starfish? We can't eat those.”

“No, but they're pretty,” he argued. “And it's _not_ a starfish.”

Tephra relented, and put the net down in her lap. The boy opened his hands to reveal a moon snail shell. It was a deep shade of blueish-grey, with a veins of nacre running through its swirl.

“These we can eat,” she noted. “But its empty. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“It's pretty,” he insisted. “All the other ones are the same, but this one is pretty. Do you like it? You could make a necklace.”

“Can I eat a necklace?”

The boy's enthusiasm deflated, as she was clearly not impressed with his gift. He pressed it into her palm, and then grinned, “Then hold it for me. I'll find a better one for you. Then we'll  _both_ have necklaces.”

Despite her current impassivity, he had seen how she'd treasured it. How many times had he watched her hand stray to her sternum, seeking the very same shell? In the quiet moments, when she thought herself unobserved? Seeking familiarity, seeking comfort, seeking—

“It is rather pretty,” she conceded, before tugging hi m by the ear and planting a kiss on his cheek. “But we need more  food , not pretty things. It's nearly winter now, and we're still not ready.”

“You _always_ worry,” the boy huffed, as he stood.

“One of us must,” she shot back, as she slipped the shell into the traveling pack beside her in the sand. “Now leave me alone so I can fix this. I can't fish without a net.”

“One day you're gonna burst from all your worrying,” the boy teased. He puffed up his cheeks, and then squashed them with his hands as he blew a raspberry at her.

She swiped at him as he danced back out of her reach, hopping on agile feet. She laughed, and threw a handful of sand after him as he returned to the water. She called after him, “You're a rotten little bird!”

“I'm gonna be taller than you,” he shot back. “Then you can't call me that anymore!”

Solas sat in the sand beside her.

This memory was softer than all the rest. The waning sun seemed to suffuse everything with a gentle warmth.

He could not help but feel a sense of admiration for their resilience.

Despite being torn from their parents and lost to their clan at such tender ages, despite the staggering odds that had been against them, they had survived. And not just simply that, but in whatever small, ragged way, they were thriving — and they were _happy._

He could not sense how much time passed as he watched her work, as she began to hum to herself a repetitive and tuneless song, as her fingers picked through the webbing of fabrics to fix knots and tie new ones. The boy was a fish in the water—diving and disappearing for spans of time as he hunted the shallows. Every now and again, Tephra turned her gaze to the water, to make sure he resurfaced, which he always did, until—

Some time had staggered past since the last time the boy resurfaced. It was then that he realized that she hadn't been humming a tuneless song, but that she had been wordlessly _counting_ to herself. And it was between each repetition that she looked up to confirm that the boy had resurfaced, only this time he hadn't.

She was on her feet before he could react. She sucked in a deep breath, and bellowed, “ _Tern!_ ”

She waited all of two heartbeats before she raced into the water after him.

A sick, sinking weight settled in the pit of his stomach, as he remembered the first time he'd trespassed into her dreams. He recalled the screaming he'd heard, just before the end. And with grim clarity, he knew that it belonged to this memory.

With great reluctance, he followed her into the water.

He did not need to swim as she did in the memory, and simply walked along the seafloor beneath her as she struggled in the dark waters. He could see no better than her, though, as the Fade reflected only what she remembered. Still, he could make out her form as she searched desperately, diving again and again, searching further and further from the shore in a desperate bid to find her brother.

Each time she broke the surface of the water, coughing and fighting for air, he could see the weight of her despair setting in, alongside inevitable fatigue. She dove once more, turning and searching with desperate hands, searching the dark waters for any trace of him, _reaching_ —

He saw the boy only when her hand brushed him, like a flash of light in the dark. She panicked, and struggled to grab hold of him as he slipped further from her. Tephra got her arms around him and began to kick furiously, propelling them toward the surface.

For a brief, startling moment, Solas could _feel_ the burning — in her lungs, in her legs as she fought the current which threatened to drag her down with him. He could feel her desperation, clawing raggedly in her chest, and then the sudden sickening drop as the sea dragged her down further.

No matter how hard she kicked against the riptide, she could not break free. She would surely follow him to his death, if she did not let go.

Watching her struggle, he could not help but think how brave she'd been, and how foolish — as she held onto him until the very last moment. Until base instinct overrode emotion, and she let go.

He felt the boy slip from her grasp, and vanish into the dark depths.

The burning need for air drove her back up to the surface, and he felt the loss as she felt it; it sent him reeling towards the shore. He could sense her struggling still, trying to recover what little strength she could for one more futile attempt. She had not given up, but soon her body would force her to.

He staggered out of the water and sank to his knees in the sand.

It was long after the sun sank beyond the horizon when Tephra finally dragged herself out of the sea and collapsed on the shore. The ragged screams and sobs which tore themselves from her lungs mirrored what he'd heard in passing before, but _this_ — this was far worse than any echo.

He had anticipated that the boy had died, had seen its impact on her and the depth of her grief — but seeing it put into brutal context was something he would have never have wanted, let alone asked of her to relive.

Of all that they'd survived together, to be taken like this — by sheer happenstance. By an errant riptide.

Solas had seen her with a dagger, with her bow. Whatever her mother had taught her as a girl, it had been honed in the deepest of the wilds. She likely faced more in her early youth, than most Dalish twice her age, and with that skill she had kept them safe. They had survived far longer than most lost children ever could be expected to.

But the sea?

How could she fight the sea?

She could not hear him, yet still he said, “I am truly sorry for all that you've lost.”

Her ragged sobs tore at him, and propelled him to crawl to where she'd collapsed in the sand. She held her face in her hands, and lay there curled in on herself.

He reached to lay his hand on her head, to offer whatever futile comfort he could, but just as he'd been violently thrown into the dreaming, he felt himself snatched back into the waking world.

There was nothing but rushing disorientation, at first.

The light was too bright, and the voices clamored around him, sharp and intrusive to his ears. His heart raced at an improbable speed. There was an odd pressure that held him down, held him still, and he realized that he'd been strapped to a makeshift stretcher. He was being carried somewhere, and in the blur of his vision as his head lolled from one side to the other, he could make out familiar landmarks — _Haven_.

How long had he been unconscious?

Then, suddenly, clarity.

“He's awake,” noted a voice which he did not know.

The movement stopped, and the faces and shapes around him were a disorienting haze, but then suddenly she was was there.

Tephra elbowed a space between two soldiers, and leaned over him, and he felt a stab tear through his heart as he watched the naked look of relief wash over her face — emotion she neither fought to suppress, nor bothered to hide, and it was entirely for him.

Again, sudden, startling clarity as he realized that she cared whether he lived, or died — that it mattered to her.

 _He_ mattered to her.

She reached to grasp his forearm — nothing more than simple gesture of reassurance — but it was so much more than she could begin to understand.

It was her, a Walker Of The Lonely Path, reaching out to _him_ — He Who Hunted Alone. It was a Dalish elf reaching across centuries of estrangement and poisonous mythology and taking hold of the Dread Wolf without fear, or hesitation.

An exhausted, strained smile pulled at her face, as she asked, “Still with us?”

It took every shred of what little strength he had, as he simply said, “Yes, still here. With you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this at all, please let me know, especially if you think I may be bungling Solas, or fudging any lore details too terribly. Or just generally flailing. I'm happy with any and all input.


	11. What The Living Do

We carry the dead in our hands  
as we might carry water — with a careful,  
reverential tread. There is no other way.  
How easily, how easily their faces spill.  
— _John Glenday, Portage_

All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles  
and ghosts of men, and spirits  
behind those birds of flame.  
I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,  
I can only hear the frame saying, “Walk through.”  
― _Ada Limon_

 

 

He would live.

It was a small comfort amidst all of the death.

Tephra watched the medics carry him off to the infirmary, and let go of a breath she'd been holding onto for far too long.

“Maker, would you _look_ at her,” one of the soldiers said, idling beside the Commander.

_Oh, of course._

She realized then, how she must have appeared to them. Dirty and wounded, with bandaged arms and a portion of her hair burnt away above the ear. And the blood — the dried sheet of it running down her neck, and much more soaked into her traveling clothes and armor. Though some of it was hers, most of it belonged to the dead soldier, and to Solas.

Still, it made for a gruesome sight.

The Commander turned to Cassandra, “Is she injured? We received various reports of an incident in the Hinterlands, involving a fire—”

The ambassador also directed her question to the Seeker, “Does she require the doctors?”

_I'm right here, for fuck's sake._

“She does not,” Tephra snarked.

The ambassador looked contrite for having not addressed her directly, as she turned back and suggested, “Perhaps a bath, then, and rest? I could see to having hot water brought to your cabin. And attendants to assist you, given your injuries.”

“That's not necessary,” she replied. “I can manage bathing myself.”

When she'd absconded that first night after attempting to close the Breach, she'd found hot springs nestled near the frozen river. They would serve better than any tub of water, and she would relish what meager solitude she could get before she was required again for whatever tasks they had planned for her.

There was an exchange of looks among the advisors, before the ambassador continued, “There are matters to attend to which require your attention, but as you've had quite the, ah — _adventure_ — please take all the time you need.”

“Thank you—”

Justinia?

_No, that was the fucking Divine, you idiot._

Despite her best attempts to remember them all, the woman's name escaped her.

 _Shit, what was it? Johanna? Jo_ —

“—Josephine.”

“There is also the matter of the dead,” Cassandra noted. “We lost several in the skirmish, which Solas was wounded in. Four of our soldiers, and two civilians.”

“I will inform the clerics to prepare them for the last rites,” Leliana replied, giving a short nod to Tephra before departing for the chantry.

“And I'll see that their families are notified, as well,” the Commander said.

“Tell them—”

Tephra hesitated.

What, exactly? That he had died a good death?

It was an insult — there was nothing good about death, and nothing that could soften loss. Not even time.

The Commander gave her a gentle look, before he said, “I will speak highly of their service.”

She doubted that would bring the families much comfort, but there was nothing for it.

“Also, speaking of the soldiers, I thought you might be relieved to hear that the templars who'd been assigned with Haven's chantry — the ones involved with the, ah, prison incident — were dismissed,” The Commander informed. “Most have returned to Val Royeaux, as far as I've heard.”

She felt an old knot of tension loosen in her. It had been hard let down her guard at all in Haven, as she had not clearly remembered many of the faces of the templars who'd harassed her, and it was easy to suspect just about all them to be culpable, even when they weren't. She couldn't help that they frightened her on some base, primal level, as she could only recall Karsten's mocking face.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Tephra replied.

“Of course, Herald,” The Commander inclined his head, deferentially. “I will see you later, at the funeral, then?”

She gave him a sharp nod, before he departed.

“One last thing, Herald, before you go” Josephine spoke up behind her. “There was a letter for you—”

Tephra turned back to the Antivan woman, surprised, “A letter?”

“Yes, from your... Keeper?”

Her stomach clenched, as she looked at the folded parchment in the woman's hand. The seal had been broken. Of course they would be reading her letters, why would she expect anything less? Yet, she could not bring herself to be particularly angry for the moment, as she took the letter from the woman.

It was a link back to her old life, before everything had been upended, before everything had went to shit. It was simplicity and routine, and many wandering days on her own, sleeping in trees and watching over the children as they played. It was healing the hurts and hauling game and foraged food home to her people.

Tephra held the parchment almost gingerly, as she glanced over the words to confirm its origin. She recognized the curving script of her Keeper's handwriting. It was smooth and graceful, unlike her own fitful, sharp scrawl. She would not read it now; she did not want to risk getting emotional in front of the others.

“Please come see me when you're ready to send a response,” Josephine urged, before departing for the chantry.

Tephra tucked the letter away into a pocket, before shouldering her traveling pack. The Seeker had already left to assist with the unloading of the bodies. She wasn't sure where Varric had gotten off to, but if she had to guess, she was certain he'd gone to claim a comfortable corner in the tavern to sit and write.

She left before anyone else could seek her out.

The caravan had parked itself near the gates of Haven, so leaving was not a difficult task. She only needed to cut through the training yards to get to the river. Still, there was an abundance of activity around her as people worked to unload the wagons, and she could not help but notice the stolen glances at her bandaged arms and catch whispered fragments of gossip.

It really shouldn't have surprised her that word of her foolish antics in the Hinterlands had preceded her return.

She caught snippets of the stories among the caravan during the trip back, and the details shifted with each repetition — how much she'd been burned, how many children she'd saved, how many rogue templars she'd executed. None seemed to mention the ones she failed to save, though. The stories only seemed to serve to aggrandize her deeds, to make it more than what it had been, to make her more than she was — much to her annoyance.

“There, _look_ , the bandages—”

“One of the scouts said she was on fire when they pulled her out, even her hair. She burned like Andraste herself!”

_Pissing hell._

Tephra resisted the urge to look back at the gossiping workers, as she cut through the training yard. What good would her denials have been? They were determined to make her into something she wasn't, regardless of her feelings on the matter.

As she ducked between the tents and avoided the stares of the soldiers, she heard someone call after her. She turned to see a soldier breaking free from a group in the middle of an exercise. A few instructors shouted after him in annoyance, for having disrupted the others, but the soldier ignored them as he came jogging toward her. He brushed sweaty dark hair out of his eyes, and flashed her a smile.

She returned it with an impatient frown, “Did you need something...?”

“Alleras,” he reminded.

It was the medic who'd saved her life at the Breach.

“And no, but I thought you might,” he continued, as he gestured at her bloodied attire, before flashing her another grin. “By the look of it, you need me.”

_Is he... flirting with me?_

She was at once amused, and annoyed. She kept her face still, and stared at him until his confidence faltered.

Alleras cleared his throat, before pointing at the band on his arm and giving a nervous chuckle, “A joke, my lady, though still sincere. I heard of what happened in the Hinterlands.”

She felt the nervous twitch in her hands as she replied, “Many things happened in the Hinterlands. Specifics would help.”

The medic glanced at her bandaged arms. “Your, ah—”

She had put fresh ones on shortly before their departure from the Crossroads, but after the attack she had been too exhausted and distracted to change them, or to check the status of her burns. Solas had done what he could to mitigate the damage, especially with her hands, which had allowed her the continued use of them with only minimal discomfort. But she had not checked her arms since she last wrapped them, and the bandages were filthy and soaked with old, dried blood. If he was a medic worth his salt, she expected he would berate her for so thoroughly inviting infection to root in her burns.

“And what have you heard?” she asked, amused to see what ridiculous new feat had been added to the story.

The medic laughed, “Well, the stories have varied a bit, given your heroics and all. Some swear up and down that your head was on fire. Your hair looks a bit singed, but hardly worse for the wear.”

“More than a bit singed, you ass,” she huffed, as she pulled at the short bits above her ear. She really needed to do something about her hair.

Alleras laughed again, as he continued, “Others said other things. You know how it is. One says this, another says that. The only thing consistent is that you were burned.”

“A bit, yeah,” she snarked. “Did you come to gawk at my arms like the others?”

“If by gawking you meant was I admiring their form, then yes. Female archers have wonderful muscle tone.” Alleras grinned, “Great shoulders, too.”

Tephra fought the flush creeping up her face as she frowned, and changed the subject, “One of my companions is a mage. He did his best to mitigate the damage.”

“He the one that got knifed in the leg? The scouts have been talking about him, too. My friend Kaz says you saved his life,” the medic said.

Why were they talking about Solas?

“Your friend helped,” she admitted, ignoring the sudden dread creeping through her. “I just panicked.”

“He told me how you pinched off the artery. Quick thinking on that one, and _smart_. Most wouldn't even know how to find it, let alone attempt to,” Alleras observed. He gestured at her arms, “I could almost forgive your complete lack of regard to your own wound management.”

Tephra gave an amused huff, “I was a bit distracted, to be fair.”

“Let's see the damage, then,” Alleras said, motioning at her arms.

Her alarm intensified. She was acutely aware of the stares from other soldiers observing the exchange from a distance. What was being said of the incident? Or worse, of Solas's involvement?

“I'm not taking my bandages off here. You're being ridiculous,” Tephra admonished.

Heedless of her discomfort, the medic took hold of her elbow and began rolling the sleeve of her coat back.

“Just a peek, Herald, nothing too invasive—”

He'd begun to peel back a portion of the bandages, which bared the grim sight of her wounds. She was not surprised by the blackened skin and thick crusts of dried blood, but when it began to peel away in thick layers with the bandaging, she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

“Well, _fuck_.”

Tephra pulled her arm free of the medic's grasp and replaced the bandages hastily.

The medic gaped at her, incredulous, “I've never—” He stopped short, opening and closing his mouth, before he tried once more, “How in the—”

“It's nothing,” Tephra said, as she rolled her sleeve down over the bandages. She did her best to copy Cassandra's sharp, authoritative tone, as she stated, “The burns were minor, and nothing more.”

Alleras continued to stare at her as though she'd sprouted a second head. When she turned to leave, he advised, “You should keep that mage close. He's a talented healer.”

She ignored the pounding in her ears as she continued through the training yard, and ignored the glances to her bandaged hands. She resisted the urge to shove them into the pockets of her coat, or to pull down her hood to hide the hair that had been burnt away in the fire.

She knew enough of the human world to know that mages often lived within the precarious confines of the Circle, and that those who did not submit to such control often ended up being made Tranquil, or killed. Companion or not, Solas was an apostate, and he was surrounded by people who feared and likely loathed mages. Solas was a stronger mage than he let on, as he was content to let others make the mistake of underestimating him — a smart fighting tactic, on the field. But here, among so many with ties to the Chantry, to Andrastian prejudices? Powerful mages were often under the most scrutiny from the Chantry, and healing magic such as this would surely give him away — and possibly put him in danger.

She would not see him hurt for having helped her, for having once again saved her life; she would need to get ahead of the rumors, and do what she could to discourage further speculation.

The springs were less than two miles from Haven, nestled in a ravine near the frozen river. She'd passed them on her previous excursion, when she had wholly intended to flee the madness of what was now the Inquisition. The heat from the springs invited a small flush of green at the edges of the pools, despite the snow.

She gathered wood and built a bonfire first, not far from the water. The walls of the ravine around her cut off most of the biting winter winds, but she would still need the heat to dry herself before dressing again. After a quick scouting of the area to ensure her privacy, she stripped down to her bandages. Those she removed more carefully, watching with morbid fascination at the skin peeling away in long scaly strips. Not simply the superficial layers one would expect from a minor burn, or from lingering in the sun too long. Whole chunks of burnt flesh clung to the bandages, which had adhered to the bandages where the blood had pooled and dried.

Once removed, she ran her fingers over skin of her forearms, inspecting the movements of her fingers and wrists and elbows. Tephra could not help but gape at her arms in awe; she had seen enough burns in her time serving among the healers of her clan to know that this was not how her skin should look, not after having been burned so severely. There was no masses of scarring, no destruction of the muscles beneath, no contracture of the limbs. The skin was smooth, but marked by the memory of fire in livid patterns.

 _Not scars_ , she realized, as she she brushed her fingertips across the marks. New skin, and startlingly sensitive beneath her touch.

He had done far more than simply fixed her hands, as she'd asked. He had gone beyond what she'd known to be possible with healing magics, and left her in remarkably better condition than one who'd so foolishly thrown theirself into a burning cabin had any right to be. He had not just regrown the skin, but the damaged muscle beneath as well, which had likely prevented her from permanent disability, loss of the limbs, or even death.

It still did not explain how she'd not _felt_ the burns, though. She could only remember two short instances in which she had felt pain during her time inside the burning cabin, and neither had been nearly enough to explain the burns she came out with. And nothing explained the hand in the darkness she was certain she felt, righting her balance and keeping her from collapsing and succumbing to the smoke.

_Does the weird shit ever stop happening, or is this just what my life is now?_

Tephra gave a frustrated sigh and threw the bandages onto the fire. She would put fresh ones on after she bathed, and wear them for an acceptable amount of time to account for minor burns. For Solas's sake, she would discourage any talk of what happened in the Hinterlands, and outright deny being severely burned if she had to.

The stones beneath her feet were warm at the water's edge, and she stepped into the spring carefully. Clouds of steam drifted around her as she lowered herself slowly into the simmering pool, easing her battered body into the heat of the water inch by inch. The natural slope of the rock allowed her to recline, with all but her head and her knees submerged. The skin of her forearms ached and throbbed in the heat, but the pain soon subsided.

She remained like that for a time, letting the heat sap away her tension and aches, before finally sitting up to scrub away the layers of dirt and blood she'd accumulated over the last few days. She cleaned the blood from hair, which had matted and tangled around her ear, and around the laceration. Solas had done a sufficient job closing it, leaving only a minimal scar. She ran her fingertips over the end of her ear, where Varric's arrow had clipped her. The Seeker had stitched it well enough, but the damage to the cartilage disrupted the straight, sharp lines of her ear. There was a furrow in the helix where the flesh had been torn away.

 _I'm going to have to start wearing more armor_ , she decided, with morbid amusement.

When she finished, she climbed out of the spring and went to rummage in her pack. She knew nothing of the various customs surrounding human funerals, only that they varied greatly, but she was certain they would require her presence there. The only suitable thing she had to wear was an airy, sleeveless white tunic, with matching leggings. Both were simple and unadorned, and made from undyed Dalish silk. She had brought the attire along with her, as she'd stopped along her trip to attend the rare birth of twins in another clan. She had served as an honorary birthing attendant, which was one of many customs which served to bolster alliances and good standing between the allied clans.

Her people wore white to births as well as funerals, as the color was heavily associated with beginnings and endings — with how each soul came from and returned to the same source.

And it was the only thing she had that was clean, so it would have to do.

She dressed quickly, shivering in the chill as she slipped on her boots and wrapped her arms and palms in fresh bandages. When she finished, she slipped on her coat and crouched by the fire, as she retrieved the letter from her pocket. It took three attempts at reading it over before any meaning seemed to break through the anxious swell of her emotions.

Her Keeper diplomatically expressed greetings and good wishes to the Inquisition itself, but she could sense the quiet anger in the older woman's words. She had not known word of what happened at the Conclave had already crossed the Waking Sea, let alone reached her own people.

_I should have sent word._

She could have spared her people undue worry and anger by sending a letter, by assuring them she wasn't a prisoner. But then, she still wasn't entirely convinced her place here was consensual — it was _necessity_. There had never been a choice in the matter for her, as she was the only one who could close the Breach.

Was there ever truly a choice, if she could not simply pass the responsibility to another? Was there still a choice in not fleeing, knowing that otherwise she would doom all of the known world to its death? Was even choosing to help a choice, in and of itself, if you were backed into a corner with no other options? Or was this what was meant to have happened, all along?

The questions made her head spin as she tucked the letter away in her pack. She pulled out her dagger; something had to be done about her hair. She'd caught glimpses of it in the water, and it looked ridiculous as it was. Tephra ran her fingertips through the short bits above her ear; the ends were brittle where the rest had been burnt away.

If her hair had been on fire, how had she not known? And the burns — how had she not felt them? First, she'd lost her hand — her _autonomy_ — and now, her hair. What more would she lose to all of this, in the end?

She gave a frustrated sigh, as she pulled a lock of hair forward and severed it. She was halfway through another bundle of hair when the Seeker spoke up behind her.

“Would you prefer assistance, or do you mean to butcher it all off?”

Tephra blew a frazzled strand out of her face as Cassandra squatted beside her, and said, “It'll grow back.”

“I have shears,” Cassandra intoned. “I can also see what I'm doing, where you're only guessing.”

She gave a sigh, and relented.

The Seeker brushed her hair back from the ear, and noted, “Your hair is so thick, it hides your ears. It is easy to forget sometimes that you are—”

“An elf? Please don't dock them,” Tephra snarked, with dark amusement.

“I would _never_ —”

The Seeker moved to fix Tephra with a sharp look, before realizing that she was being teased. Cassandra made a sound of annoyance, before sitting back on her heels. “Perhaps cutting it short will help the others remember what you are, too. You are our Herald, but you are also yourself, and an elf. That should not be lost to you, or to history.”

Despite the differences in what they believed, it was an attempt by the Seeker to reach across the gulf between the cultures, their histories.

Once again, she found herself surprised by the woman's words, and more so by her own emotional response to them. And to think, how differently things had been not even a month prior.

They had long since ceased being jailer and prisoner to one another. At some point along the way, Cassandra had stopped distrusting her every action, and she had stopped meeting the Seeker's every question with anger. Something had changed, had shifted, and now there was something tentatively amiable between them — something close to respect.

Tephra didn't know how to convey what it meant to her, to have earned such high regard from Cassandra. That the Seeker cared at all to see beyond the power that marked her, beyond the title they'd placed upon her, meant more than she could begin to put to words. That the woman had even managed to coax respect and trust from her, when she had been otherwise so unwilling to give it.

“I had a brother, too,” she blurted out, impulsively. “He's gone, and I don't like talking about him either. I just wanted you to know that.”

_Ah, fuck._

Tephra felt the Seeker's hands go still in her hair.

It wasn't exactly what she had meant to say, but she could see why her mind had reached for it. It was common ground between them, something dear which had been lost.

It was her own fumbling attempt to reach out to the Seeker, for whatever it was worth.

For a time, she was content to lapse into silence, and focus on the pleasant sensation of another person's hands in her hair, while listening to the snip of the shears as locks of hair drifted to her lap. With each cut, Tephra felt the weight of her hair fall away. It was an odd sensation — the sudden lack of it. Her ears felt exposed, left naked to the wind and to prying eyes, but there was also a strange liberation in it.

None would be able to deny what she was, now.

“I was wrong about you,” Cassandra said, finally. She sifted Tephra's choppy lengths through her fingers, snipping at bits here and there, as she continued, “You are none of the things I suspected you to be, and you have surpassed any cautious hope I might have had regarding your willingness to help with the Breach, and the people who need it.”

“I was wrong about you, too,” Tephra replied. She shot a wry grin over shoulder at Cassandra, as she added, “Well, except the stabby angry bits, but that's not a bad thing as long as it's not directed at me.”

Cassandra laughed quietly, before clearing her throat. She feigned disapproval as she turned Tephra's head back around, “Be still, Herald. Or I _will_ dock your ears.”

Anyone else would have taken the Seeker at her word, assumed her threat genuine, but she couldn't help but grin at Cassandra's terrible attempt at a joke and give a gasp mock outrage.

After trimming a few more odd ends, Cassandra surveyed her work and gave a satisfied nod. “That will do,” she said.

Tephra brushed the shorn hair from her shoulders as she stood. She ran her fingers through the short lengths that remained, and gave an amused huff, “Now we have matching haircuts. Whatever will they say?”

The Seeker gave a snort and rolled her eyes, before her sharp gaze zeroed in on Tephra's bandages. “You have not complained much, but surely those must hurt. How are they healing?”

“They're fine,” she replied, carefully. “No need to fuss—”

When Cassandra reached for her arm, Tephra could not help but flinch backward, which gave away any pretense she may have had.

_Shit._

“You're terrible at lying,” the Seeker observed.

Why was everyone so comfortable with taking such liberties with her? Was blatant disregard of personal space a human thing, or did they truly see her as something less — as something with less of a right to personal space?

Rebellion burned in her belly, but it was brief. Nothing good would come of keeping things from the Seeker. None of this worked — being what they needed, doing what was asked of her — if she could not trust the ones who worked closest to her. She needed to be able to trust her companions, or it would all fall apart.

Tephra relented, and allowed the woman to take her by the arm. Dread washed through her as she watched Cassandra unwound a portion of the bandages.

If the Seeker was surprised by the sight of her healed, hardly-marked skin, she did not show it. “Solas did this?”

“He _healed_ me,” Tephra emphasized. “If they had been left as they were, they would have infected and I would have died. Probably.” She heaved a sigh of frustration, as she added, “At the very least, I wouldn't be of much use to you anymore.”

Cassandra regarded her for a long moment with a tight, inscrutable expression, before admitting, “That is true. It's good that you did not die. However, lying is not—”

“I was afraid for him,” Tephra shot back, heatedly. “He is an elven apostate among those who would readily kill him for what he is.”

Surprise softened the Seeker's face, which sent her stomach rolling.

 _Well, that certainly comes across as_ —

What, exactly?

Tephra averted her gaze as she fought the flush threatening to creep across her face, “I would do the same for you, as well as Varric. It's the Dalish way — you live and die by the integrity of your bond to your clanmates. If you would not protect the one watching your back, why should they risk themselves for you?”

“Solas has proven himself many times over since joining us, there is no need to lie for him,” the Seeker admonished. Once again, Cassandra fixed her with a complicated, inscrutable expression as she asked, “Do you trust him?”

“Yes.”

That she did not hesitate to declare it surprised her more than it did the Seeker.

“Then I will trust that you do,” Cassandra replied.

Tephra frowned. “Why?”

“It was not just the Divine who was lost at the Conclave,” Cassandra said. “Many lost loved ones to the explosion. Nearly everyone in Haven has lost someone.”

 _She's speaking of herself_ , Tephra realized.

“I'm sorry,” she replied. “I didn't know.”

The Seeker gave a brittle laugh, “How could you have known? I never would have spoke of it, when I still believed you guilty. I know now that you're not at fault for what happened there.”

Tephra regarded the woman with a tight expression, before she said, “For whatever it's worth, I appreciate that you do.”

“You did not trust Solas, at first,” Cassandra noted.

“I didn't trust any of you, at first,” Tephra reminded. She still wasn't sure that she trusted any of them beyond the three companions who traveled with her, and she hardly knew the rest of them.

 _Something else to see to, I suppose_ , she noted to herself.

The Seeker's eyebrow quirked, as she asked, “Still — something has changed, has it not?”

When had her disposition to Solas changed? The night he followed her into the woods, to make sure she stayed safe? Or when he shared his stories, and endured her endless questions and mad rambling?

Tephra worried at the edges of her bandages, as she begrudgingly admitted, “Yes, I suppose it has.”

“I know how difficult it can be to trust other people's intentions,” Cassandra offered. “And you remind me of myself, how I was with—” The Seeker cleared her throat, changing the subject as she gestured at Tephra's bandages, “Wear the them if you must, and address the rumors how you will. I will support you, regardless. And do not worry for Solas — I won't allow anyone to harm him, as long as it is in my power to do so, for your sake.”

Tephra could not help the complicated swell of her emotions, nor the growing fondness she had for the woman. “Will you be with me, until the end? Until this is over?”

“I will not abandon you, or my oaths,” the Seeker assured. “Wherever this path ends, I will be with you.”

A heavy silence settled between them, as Tephra considered the Seeker and how far they'd come since the Breach. It was a tight, complicated thing — whatever this was between them — an alliance of necessity, which had shifted to something more, something that warred between fondness and rebellion in her belly.

Putting a name to it meant an acknowledgment of its reality — it made it real, and real things could be lost.

Tephra thought of him — collapsed and dying, with nothing but the trembling grip of her hand keeping him from bleeding out. How closely she'd come to losing him, how easily it could happen again, to any of them.

She had lost many things over the course of her life, and it had robbed her of her willingness to bond with others, to welcome any sort of closeness, for fear of losing it. Even in her clan, she had kept a practical distance, and she had done her best to keep the bonds to her clanmates superficial. And yet, it was as it had always been — an exercise in futility.

One could not live with others, without inevitably growing close to them. Even if she had fooled many with her aloofness, her solitary nature, she never could quite fool herself.

Tephra gave a huff, before she snarked, “So, are we getting married now, or...?”

The Seeker gave something between a groan and a laugh, as she shoved Tephra in the general direction of Haven.

“Come, Herald. We have work to do.”  
  
  


———  
  
  


When he woke again, Solas found himself in the Haven infirmary.

One of his agents was sitting by his cot, idly playing a round of cards by himself. He did not look up, as he inquired, “Sleep well?”

Solas gave a sharp exhale through his nose, before attempting to sit. Pain lanced through him, shooting up from his thigh, and effectively knocking him back into bed.

“I'll take that as a no,” the elf said, as he continued his game.

Solas frowned, regarding the agent — it was the medic, Kazem. A competent agent, if a bit droll at times.

“How long have I been out?” he asked, before taking another attempt at sitting. Solas grunted in pain, but managed to to raise himself up this time.

“A few hours,” Kazem replied, unaffectedly. “Probably the sedatives they administered.”

_Sedatives._

It was no wonder he didn't remember dreaming, let alone losing consciousness, not since returning to Haven. He detested sedatives as much as he detested stimulants — they both served to inhibit his ability to dream.

He did not see his pack by the cot. Solas searched the interior pockets of his jerkin for the report, and alarm washed over him when he did not find it.

“Sir,” the elf piped up, holding the scroll between two fingers as he continued to arrange cards on the small table he was sitting at.

Solas grimaced as he reached to take it from him, as every movement of his body seemed to pull at the torn muscles in his thigh.

“It fell from your person while we moved you into one of the wagons,” Kazem informed.

“Who?”

“The Seeker, Lavellan, and myself. Lavellan saw it fall, and returned it. The Seeker did not notice, and Lavellan didn't seem tempted to investigate it. Anyone else might not have afforded you the same level of respect,” the agent replied. “I took it from you after she stepped away, for obvious reasons.”

_Fenedhis._

So much could have been compromised over his hesitation to follow his own strict protocol — to simply read the report and destroy it entirely, lest they risk any of the covert communications being discovered. More damning that the report was of pertinent information regarding the Herald, likely in far greater detail than Leliana's people had managed to dig up.

The Herald's dreams were still fresh in his mind, and he could not help but worry that she'd discovered his invasion of her person — of the private aspects of her life, which she kept rightfully to herself.

He'd seen her fury — he did not wish to have it leveled at himself, if he could avoid it.

As he tucked the scroll away, he queried, “You're certain she did not open it?”

“She did not have the opportunity, and her focus was entirely on your welfare,” Kazem replied.

The knife again, between his ribs and stabbing deep.

Kazem regarded him with sharp curiosity, “You instructed for all messages to be destroyed upon reading. That is still your standing order, is it not?”

A flash of annoyance crossed his face, as he snapped, “I was not at leisure to, given my unconsciousness.”

“Of course, sir,” the agent conceded.

Doubt worried at Solas, like a dog to a bone. “You're certain she did not read the report?”

“She was never given the opportunity to,” Kazem replied. Amusement crossed his face, pulling at the lines of scarification which marked his cheeks, “A pity you don't trust her, as she clearly puts hers in you.”

Solas gave a sharp frown, “Excuse me?”

“Ah, yes of course, you wouldn't have heard — being unconscious and all,” the agent continued. “A few of the humans were speculating if you were the “Shartan” to her “Andraste”, so she's been running around the town all day, dispelling any talk of you healing her. She'd rather let them believe she somehow miraculously managed to not prematurely martyr herself and suffer through their claims of divinity, than to allow scrutiny of your involvement.”

Solas's hand fisted on his uninjured thigh. He briefly recalled her forcing her fingers into his wound, and the sight of her holding his life in her hands. It reminded him of the old saying of his people — _“The healer has the bloodiest hands.”_ He kept his face calm, despite the sudden conflict of emotions warring inside him.

How far did she intend to go, to keep her promise of protecting him?

It was at once alarming, and _pleasing._

He shoved the thought aside, as he motioned at the elf, “Help me stand.”

Though he was not quite as tall as Solas, the medic was stocky and strong, and bore his weight easily as Solas leaned heavily on him. Rising had been painful; standing was excruciating.

With what little strength he had, Solas pressed a hand to his bandaged thigh; magic sparked dimly, and dulled his nerves.

Kazem leaned to retrieve Solas's stave from where it stood leaning against the wall, before handing it to him.

With one hand braced on the medic's shoulder, and the other gripping tight to his stave, Solas made his way out of the empty infirmary. Each step was a struggle, and his weakened state was both infuriating, and humbling.

Outside, the streets were decidedly empty.

As Solas released his hold on the medic, to stand on his own, he asked, “Where is everyone?”

“At the funeral, I expect,” Kazem replied. “Out past the training yards. For the ones who died in the bandit attack.”

His memory of the attack was muddled after he'd begun to fight the one who'd stabbed him. “Was she injured?”

The medic shot him a wry look, as he said, “Nothing she couldn't handle.”

Without a further word, Solas left the agent and began to make his way toward the outskirts of Haven. It was a slow, laborious endeavor, compounded by the snow and ice on the ground beneath him.

He could hear the singing by the time he reached the gates, and the slow steady beat of drums.

Out in the training fields, near the river, all of Haven had gathered to honor those they'd lost. As he moved through the crowds, he ignored the occasional glances from the handful of his agents scattered amongst them.

What a sight he must have been — the widely-feared Dread Wolf, inciter of the greatest rebellion known to history, savior and destroyer of his people — leaning heavily on his staff and hobbling along at a glacial pace.

It was not that he ever made claims of invulnerability, or godhood, or that he'd never been severely wounded in the long span of his life. He'd seen his share of war and fighting, and bled for it. But to have been brought down by a simple dagger, to have been so thoroughly chastised by his own mortality and current weakened state, to have been brought so close to his own end—

It was sobering, to say the least.

While soldiers worked to assemble funeral pyres, the clerics handled the bodies. The dead had been wrapped in clean linen, except for their faces. They lay in rows, together, awaiting cremation. Those whose family resided in Haven were with their dead, offering trinkets and final words to their loved ones.

He was no stranger to death, even in his own world. None had been exempt from it, not even the evanuris, however they labored to appear so. Yet still, it was a rare thing among the immortal beings, and their funerals tended toward more elaborate celebrations — appallingly decadent displays in comparison to what surrounded him.

The mortals were far more tender in their grief, handling the bodies as if they were only sleeping, as if they might wake again, singing hymns and mourning their loss in a way that only mortal beings knew how.

That was where he found her.

The Herald was a vision in white among the drab crowds, which made it easier to observe her at a distance. He followed in the wake of her gravity, as she walked amongst the grieving. He watched as she gracefully endured the emotional demands of the mourners, stopping for all who addressed her or reached for her bandaged hands, taking their grief as her own as she offered her condolences.

How small she seemed now, without the layers of armor and the over-sized coat she'd been given. Her shoulders were bared to the cold, and far too small to carry the weight of the world. Most of her hair had been cut away, and what was left framed her face in shaggy curls.

The absence of her thick tangle of hair exposed the long lines of her neck, as well as her ears. They were longer than his own, though not as wide — unpierced, and unfreckled, and unsettling in how they drew his gaze.

He'd so quickly admonished her for not seeing past his ears, and yet here he was unable to take his eyes off hers.

Solas briefly recalled her impish smile when she'd wiggled them at him, the morning after he'd collected her from the forest outside Haven. At the time, he'd been too preoccupied with admonishing her for seeing him as just an elf to appreciate her humor, or to appreciate the rare sight of her ears at all. She had never attempted to tame her hair, and often had her hood drawn up, which kept them well-hidden. It had been easy to dismiss her, even as a shadow of his people, in the beginning. Their sudden bareness was almost intimate, and that it preoccupied him at all was, to say the least, alarming.

She was becoming increasingly distracting, in more ways than he cared to admit.

He drifted in the ebb of her wake, until it brought him to her companions and advisors. Just as he had been, they were watching the Herald among the mourners.

“You should be resting,” the Seeker noted, with disapproval.

“I have rested enough, for now,” Solas replied, dismissively.

“Our Herald has a soft heart,” the spymaster Leliana observed, still watching as the elf allowed the younger mourners to cling to her in their grief.

“The soldiers and refugees have been passing around stories of your time in the Hinterlands,” the Commander said, as he turned to Cassandra. “Of the fire, and of — well, suffice to say, I believe they see it, as well. Her soft heart, that is.”

“With you people, all a soft heart is gonna get her is an early grave,” the dwarf muttered.

He could appreciate Master Tethras's candor, even if the others did not.

The Seeker rounded on Varric, as if to reprimand him. Her anger was short-lived, however, as she relented and merely stated, “I will not let that happen. Anything that tries must get through me first.”

Varric gave a sharp, bitter laugh, and said nothing more as he departed. Solas followed after him, preferring the dwarf's company over the rest.

When he realized he was being followed, the dwarf slowed his pace to match Solas's. “I'm surprised to see you up and about. You were pretty close to kicking off to that Fade you love so much," he remarked.

“Not quite yet, I'm afraid,” Solas replied, with an edge of dark humor. All around them, the crowd was an odd mix of emotions, and he could not help but observe, “How quickly they go from mourning to laughing.”

The dwarf laughed then, as well, “It's what we do, Chuckles. All the crying, the laughing, the anger, all that shit — that's living. The day we stop doing it, is the day we die.”

Even though they were not truly whole, not what he would consider people — seeing their pain firsthand, seeing their losses, and watching them struggle to overcome them despite the terrible nature of their world, inspired a strange sort of respect in him.

Of course they felt the keenness of pain and loss, even if they were not whole, even if they were not truly people. And of course they laughed and knew happiness and joy, even in this diminished, dying world.

“Well said,” Solas conceded.  
  
  


———  
  
  


She stood watching the pyres burn, until the smell of the burning bodies forced her away. The scent brought back memories of the bodies at the Breach, beyond count and burnt beyond recognition.

More dead.

How many more would die, before the end?

Tephra skirted the periphery of the crowds, seeking a moment of respite before she would be inevitably drawn back to continue as Cassandra had advised.

“ _They need you_ ,” the Seeker had said.

So she forced her composure, and let them lay their griefs and their anger at her feet. She fumbled her way through the condolences, and offered them what paltry compassion she could. But what were words, in the face of such loss?

No words could ever take the griefs she carried from her; how could she expect hers would take them from anyone else? Nothing was more present than the absence of a loved one.

There was nothing she could give, but the truth.

_I'm sorry for your loss._

As she wandered past one of the many tables which had been carried out into the field to accommodate those in attendance, she pilfered a bottle of whiskey. A good portion of it had been poured already, but there was more than enough left to take the edge off her anxiety.

She wished that they had not left the faces bared. It was easier to distance oneself from the reality of it, the weight of senseless deaths, when there weren't faces and names attached to the bodies.

Half of her felt obligated to remember, felt she owed them at least that much — the other half of her sought forgetting, sought numbness in the alcohol.

“He was happy he saved him.”

Her step faltered as she turned to see who'd spoken up behind her.

A young man was sitting up on one of the low stone walls which lined the road leading out of Haven. He fidgeted with his fingertips, as he lilted, “It mattered. _He_ mattered.”

_Who—?_

Tephra stepped closer, and tilted her head to peer under the brim of his ridiculously over-sized hat. She could only see the lower half of his young face and the briefest glance from pale blue eyes behind a thick fall of blonde hair. She didn't remember seeing him among the caravan, but there had been quite a few last-minute tagalongs.

She frowned, “Did you come with the refugees?”

“I followed from the fire. You _hurt_ to help them. I took it away, so you could,” the young man replied, in a plaintive tone. “I want to help, too.”

Tephra gaped at the young man, incredulous. “The—”

And then, she remembered.

She'd nearly dropped the boy, as she scrambled desperately through the smoke, choking and blind, when fatigue and disorientation and desperation overwhelmed her. She had begun to fall, when something reached through the darkness and righted her. And then how after, when the adrenaline wore off, she realized how despite the pain of her burns, she couldn't remember getting most of them, or at least, the pain of getting burned.

Tephra stared at the young man in shock; she had not hallucinated the strange incident. “You were in the cabin.”

“Yes,” he replied. He tilted his head, as if he were listening to something which only he could hear.

Tephra's blood ran cold as the young man began to recite her unspoken thoughts — her griefs, and her regrets.

“He slipped through my grasp, just like _he_ did. If only I had been faster, if only I had seen him,” the young man lilted. “But you didn't see. The smoke — burning, blinding, choking. It wasn't your fault.”

It was as if he'd reached inside her and ripped open every old wound she carried, all at once. “How could you possibly know that?” she demanded.

“Talking to yourself now, Snowflake?”

Tephra turned to find Varric at her side. Frowning, she said, “No, I was just—”

She turned back to the strange young man, but he was gone from the wall. There was no trace of him in any direction; there weren't even footsteps in the snow where he'd been, or proof of his leaving. It was as if he'd never been there in the first place.

Tephra's stomach churned, and rolled. _Am I losing my mind?_

Varric regarded her with concern, before jesting, “That whiskey getting the job done?”

“No, not near enough,” she replied. She ignored how unsettled she felt, and forced a laugh, “Come, let's go find more.”  
  
  


———  
  
  


Most had retired for the night, though the bonfires had been left burning for those who remained. Mostly soldiers and scouts, swapping stories of their fallen comrades and drinking in their honor.

He'd resolved himself to not seek her out, unnecessarily, to avoid complication, to avoid distraction — but it had only been a matter of time until the Herald found him.

She came like an apparition out of the dark; her clothing and hair seemed far too bright in the low light of the bonfires. _She_ was too bright. She crouched near the fire, holding a bottle of mead in a loose grip.

Solas could not blame her for seeking inebriation, given recent events. The brutal realities of this world weighed heavily on her, and had stripped away any lingering naiveté of her youth.

The Herald continued to stare into the fire, as she mused, “There is this idea that there are some places where the weight of suffering compounded over time weakens the boundaries between this world and the Fade.”

“More than simply a hypothesis. It is an observable phenomenon,” Solas replied, almost automatically. His pulse quickened at his own willingness to answer her questions.

She fixed him with her impossibly dark, impossibly inquisitive eyes, “Does that mean the Veil will eventually wear away entirely on its own, the way water carves rock? Does it even matter if I close the Breach, if it'll just happen again in the future?”

_Fenedhis lasa._

“It would still matter, yes,” he replied, carefully.

It was all he could allow himself to say.

She fell into silence for a time, taking generous drinks from her bottle of mead.

He found himself unconsciously bracing for whatever she meant to say next, or ask of him. Expectation elicited both fear and excitement in him, as her questions and statements often danced far too close to the truth, and it would be startlingly easy for him to slip up around her.

When she spoke again, she did not disappoint.

“If a spirit is drawn through the Veil and made flesh, when they die do they return to the Fade? Is it really dying, if they were always a spirit before they had a body? Is that what we become when we die? Is “soul” just another word for spirit, or are they separate things? Can a spirit die?”

The vertiginous frenzy of her questions sent his pulse racing, beating like a war drum in his head, and he could not help but stare at the naked curiosity on her face.

It was a precious thing — such seeking of knowledge for knowledge's sake, without bias, or prejudice, or ulterior motives. She was simply curious, and unafraid of knowing the truth.

It had been a rarity even in his own world, but to find it here?

She was an impossibility, and she was marked for death by his Anchor. Each moment brought her closer to that inevitability, and she seemed to burn all the more brightly for it.

Bright, and burning, and full of _spirit_.

He had not thought he would mourn the loss of anything in this blighted world, had not thought he would find anything worth the consideration.

Yet here she was, impossibly, and more than anything he could have expected.

He felt unmoored and adrift, and the possibilities sent him reeling.

He reached for the simplest, vaguest answer he could give her without lying. “Anything can die, even the world itself.”

She grinned, “Ah, good. You're just as grim as I am tonight.”

Solas remained where he was, sitting rigidly, as he watched her rise and relocate to sit beside him on the wooden bench. He was acutely aware of her proximity, as she shifted to lean back against the table behind them.

“You should take better care of yourself,” she noted, casually.

He frowned at her, “Excuse me?”

Was she suggesting he'd _meant_ to be stabbed?

“Isn't that what you meant?” she asked. “When you were injured.”

“Forgive me, but I remember little of the event,” he replied.

“You said, “I woke too weak”,” she informed.

Solas felt his stomach clench, and diverted to a different truth, “I did not sleep well the night before.”

“Of course it would be my fault,” she mused, darkly. “I kept you up with all of my rambling. My mouth gets away from me when I drink, and I'm always saying the wrong things. I do apologize.”

“Do not,” he countered, a bit too sharply, and a bit too hastily. “Such stimulating conversation is worth a stab wound, or two.”

She laughed, and pushed at his shoulder. “You're _terrible_.”

He found himself smiling in response, as she withdrew from him, pleased that he'd elicited her laughter despite her dark mood. There was danger here, in this moment, in this conversation, and yet he continued on heedlessly.

“Only often, though not always,” he quipped. There was a sudden stab of guilt, and startling clarity, as he mused, “I had a friend who'd agree with you on that, though. He was fond of such hypothetical discussions.”

Not a lie, not really — Felassan was fond of such hypothetical discussions, it was only the subject which differed. _“Are they not people, even as they are? How certain are you? Can they be made whole? Is there another way?”_

She regarded him with an unbearably soft expression, as she asked, “Had?”

_“You know, I suspect you'll hate this, but she reminds me of—”_

“Had,” Solas confirmed, brooking no further clarification on the matter. “He would have liked you.”

“Is that to say you don't? I'm wounded, Solas.”

It was a teasing jab, but he lapsed into a brooding silence as he thought of his friend.

He imagined that Felassan, whatever might have been left of him, somewhere, was laughing his ass off. It would have been very much like him to enjoy this sort of irony.

She chuckled, low and pleasant, before remarking, “Most of my clan is convinced I'm completely mad, because of the things I say and the questions I ask.”

“The Dalish—”

“Let's not, tonight,” Tephra interjected, tersely. “I've had my fill of fighting lately.”

Solas shifted, turning to face her as he leaned an elbow on the table, and asked, “Do you miss them — your clan?”

“Often, if only for the safety of familiarity,” she admitted. “I was often away from my clan, but I always went back. I always had a home with them. Even if they thought I was strange, they still treated me as kin.”

When he said nothing, she shifted to lean her elbows on the table behind her, and fixed him with a studious look. He knew what she meant to ask; he'd opened that door.

“Did you lose them?” Tephra locked her dark eyes on him — at once sharp and soft — as she clarified, “Your people. Like your friend.”

“Why?”

It was the same response he'd given when she asked him to speak of himself in the beginning — of his history, his experiences, his opinions. But it had been suspicion before, distrust. Now it was something else, something better left unsaid.

_Why do you care?_

“Most people don't choose to be alone, not when they have the choice,” she remarked. “I see it in you — the loss.”

Solas thought of her, in that forest in her dreams; she had left it long ago, but she was still lost there, in her grief.

Such a small brave thing she had been, to have lived so long alone.

There was not much he could say, without lying. Less so, that wouldn't lead to more probing questions. It was easier to let his silence prompt her onto an alternate path, a little further from the truth.

“You've said that you're neither Dalish, nor of the alienages,” Tephra mused. “I can only assume that you've lost your people — whoever they were — so now you are neither.”

“I am an apostate,” he reminded her. “I have never been either.”

That, at least, was a truth he could give her.

She gave an amused huff, “Do apostates spring up out of cabbages, fully formed? Or are you being deliberately evasive to provoke me?”

It was a teasing jab, and the quirk of her mouth as she smiled drew his gaze for longer than cared to admit.

Solas feigned innocence, “Why would I wish to provoke you, Herald?”

Tephra shot him an impatient, if amused look, “Because you so often do.”

“Not on purpose.”

Her eyebrow gave a dubious arch.

Amused, he conceded, “Not _always_ on purpose.”

“Oh no, not you, Solas — you who delight in his superior position of knowledge on all things that ever were,” she teased, as a smile burned slowly across her mouth.

His stomach clenched. Was that how she saw him, truly?

Perhaps, at times, his pride could get away from him, but he was not so arrogant as he'd been in his youth. He had learned the mistakes of harboring such pride, such insistence on being right, many times over. The world itself, as it was now, was a constant catastrophic reminder of what his pride had cost him — what it had cost everyone.

She continued, unaware of his discomfort, “And heaven forbid anyone do anything you deem wrong, then it's Dalish this, and humans that, and so on. Which is hardly fair, given that we know so little of you. It isn't as though we can go, “Oh, look, there goes Solas, doing that thing that they do, wherever he's from”, now can we?”

“Is that who you think I am? What you think of me?” he asked, quietly.

It had been a jest, a teasing jab — but she was immediately aware that she'd offended him.

Tephra regarded him for a long moment, as her amusement died away and her eyebrows knitted together. Her face softened, as did her tone, as she said, “I think you're someone who's trying to survive in a world that often disregards and persecutes people who think differently. Who are different. I think you're someone who keeps hidden the things he needs to, to survive, and I don't need to know what they are. I'll protect your right to keep them, however I can.”

A dagger of guilt slipped between his ribs, and stabbed deep. But there was also something else — something far more dangerous, which clutched at the confines of his chest.

_Hope._

Since waking, he had not dared to hope to find anything resembling the world that was. There had only been ruins and remnants, and the shadows that lingered who wore the faces of his People. A mockery of what they'd once been, of what he'd hoped they would become in their freedom.

But she was no shadow, she was — what, precisely? Was it the Anchor, his magic, which had made her something more? Something _almost_ —

It was dangerous speculation, and an unnecessary detour from his path. Yet his curiosity — ever insatiable, as it was — demanded to know what he might find at the end of that road.

He had never dared to hope that he could find someone like her in this blighted world — to find someone of such compassion and understand, of such spirit.

It shook the foundation of everything he knew to be true — a complication which threatened to change _everything_ , when he couldn't allow it to.

Still, he would not labor in ignorance any longer. Discerning the truth of what she was, was the least he owed her. He would not continue to insult her by viewing her as a lesser being, when she was so clearly something more.

She endured his silence until uncertainty crept in. She averted her gaze, and fiddled with the bottle of mead she held between her hands, “I'm sorry for prying. I just wanted you to know that I understand — how it is to lose people. That I'm sorry you lost yours.”

Her compassion — the fact that she felt it all, for him — clutched curiously at his chest, and tightened his breath. She had no idea, no way of conceiving, how utterly short her statement fell. Not simply of his loss, but of himself.

It was a frightening, unsettling, liberating notion — that not only could she see him, but that she could understand him.

It was like finding safe harbor, after centuries of being adrift and apart from anything familiar. How could he ever hope to keep his distance from her, when she offered such sanctuary in this blighted world?

His gaze shifted to her forearms. The fact that she was willing to perpetuate a charade to protect him, even going so far as to wear unnecessary bandages and doing her best to dismiss talk of the cabin incident, incited a small riot of emotion in him. He would not have her compromise herself for him, but there was no denying the gratitude he felt, or how its warmth seemed to permeate through the cracks in his defenses.

He shifted and straightened, taking the bottle of mead from her and setting it aside. However surprised she was that he'd taken it from her, she said nothing, and simply watched his actions. When he reached for her arm, she did not pull away.

However, when he began to unbind her bandages, she clasped his wrist tightly, and urged, “Don't — someone will _see_.”

Her genuine concern for him evoked a sudden fondness he had not felt for ages.

“It is no secret that I am mage,” he assured, not bothering to fight the smile that slipped past his guard.

Her grip on his wrist loosened, and lingered — a momentary hesitation — before withdrawing. The sensation clamored across his nerves, alarming in the way it affected him.

Her arm relaxed in his hold, as she permitted him to continue.

He'd watched her recoil from the well-meaning touches and curious inquiries from advisors and strangers alike, how she had only been willing to endure brief clasps of her hands to theirs.

That she so willingly gave herself over to him — that out of any of them, she was placing her trust in him — sent an odd thrill coursing through him.

 _Distance_ , some small part of him shouted, distantly, but it was far more difficult to dissect his intentions or deny the reality of her with the warmth of her skin against his. And what in the Void was he doing — smiling at her such as he was, while stripping away her bandages, as one would undress a lover?

Simply pragmatic concern for his companion's well-being. Simply assessing his work, and nothing otherwise.

 _You old fool_ , another part of him seemed to mock.

Foresight demanded an immediate withdrawal, as continued proximity threatened the stability of his defenses. Of walls best left heeded. Yet he did not retreat, and continued to unwind the strips of cloth, until the entirety of her arm was left bare to him. The memory of her wounds marked her skin, and he could not help but feel frustrated by his own weakness. Had he been stronger, he would have left her unmarked. He brushed his thumb across the marks on her wrist, assessing his work.

A shiver ran through her, and the Blight take him, he was _delighted_ by it.

“It's still sensitive,” she informed. “My clan's best healers are mages, but I've never seen anything like this before.”

“Just as with many things, some mages are more attuned to healing magic than others,” he replied.

Holding her arm, just as he was, elicited the memory of waking in Haven after the bandit attack, after the dreaming. Her concern, her relief, as she clasped his arm.

_“Still with us?”_

_“With you.”_

Incoherent as he'd been, it was still a dangerous distinction to make. He had meant—

What, exactly?

The line he was treading was perilous, and it would be far too easy to cross it.

Troubled, he pulled his hand away, and noted, “You need not keep pretending to be injured, for my sake. Cassandra knows my strengths well enough.”

“It was the least I could do for you,” she replied.

“Your intent is what matters,” he assured.

Tephra huffed, “Does it? With everything that's happened, all I've done so far is not get killed.”

“Do keep doing that, if you would.”

“Well, if you insist,” she snarked, as she stood. She reclaimed her bottle of mead, and saluted him with it. “If you don't mind terribly, I have a date to finish with this particularly charming bottle of alcohol, and then I intend to sleep. A lot. Possibly until next year.”

“Not at all,” he lied, and said nothing to encourage her to stay.

As she moved to leave, Tephra stopped briefly to lean and clasp his shoulder.

“We're still here,” she said, quietly. Firelight danced in the dark depths of her eyes as she fixed him with a small smile, and added, “We're not dead yet.”

It was nothing more than a small gesture of solidarity — casual, even — and yet he found himself holding his breath until she released her hold on him and withdrew.

He watched her leave, and it was an effort to not call her back, to not follow after.

 _Not real_ , he reminded himself. _None of them are, not really. Not whole, not_ —

Solas gave a slow, sore sigh.

What had once been such a simple truth to him, was beginning to feel like a lie. The words had gone hollow and brittle, and he was certain the longer he clung them, the harder the fall would be when they broke.

Somehow, impossibly, she was something _more._

Had the Anchor altered her in some manner, or was her strong spirit simply an aberration of this world? Some remnant sparking brighter than the rest?

To whatever end the truth led him, he would find out, regardless of how it troubled him.

Perhaps it would lead him to a better way, to an alternative, as his friend had hoped for.

At the very least, he was obligated to try; she was an anomaly that needed to be accounted for.

Solas reached into his pocket and withdrew the scroll case. He turned it between his fingers, contemplatively, before casting it into the bonfire and letting it take her secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a disclaimer, probably don't go jumping into random hot springs. It's a good way to end up scalded to death. 
> 
> Also, as far as I'm writing this and how I've interpreted the canon, Solas definitely fell for Lavellan first, hard and fast. We pretty much get his focus/grace/muscles flirt right off the bat, but I'm drawing it out a bit more. He's in it, (as Sera would say), but he doesn't quite accept it yet. He's definitely in some stage of denial.
> 
> I have also been amusing myself by putting together a soundtrack for this story, which mostly consists of instrumental/postrock/ambient music which I listen to while writing and have often though, "Yes, this totally fits this scene." If anyone's interested, you can listen here:
> 
> [Vol.1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p3DI26c1DWA&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlq9DSLE0GNPLDUsjQfdSQG) (covers chapters 1-3)  
> [Vol. 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWxqaMoMlDk&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnkUv8DNduRv8MBn7Y-5KDXx) (covers chapters 4-8)  
> [Vol. 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_64FrNskpWk&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlEiHb4wIaq_WtRY3dtcPUt) (covers chapters 8-11)  
>   
> If you're further interested, (and still not convinced of the depths of my nerdiness), here is my [tumblr post](http://pushtheheart.tumblr.com/post/143832493898/the-ridiculous-soundtrack-of-inspiration-im) which describes which songs were attributed what particular scenes.
> 
> Lastly, to arlavellan, who recently left tumblr — I do hope you're okay!


	12. He Who Hunts Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic soundtrack: [Vol. 4](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NznlIxK6IzM&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnkglJJsCux5iVhpoMEBL53l) (Covers Chapters 12―15)

“Well, it's no use your talking about waking him,” said Tweedledum. “When you're only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you're not real.”  
“I am real!” said Alice, and began to cry.  
“You won't make yourself a bit realer by crying,” Tweedledee remarked. “There's nothing to cry about.”  
“If I wasn't real,” Alice said — half laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous — “I shouldn't be able to cry.”  
“I hope you don't think those are real tears?” Tweedledee interrupted in a tone of great contempt.  
_—Lewis Carol, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland_

Can you understand being alone so long  
you would go out in the middle of the night  
and put a bucket into the well  
so you could feel something down there  
tug at the other end of the rope?  
_—Jack Gilbert_

 

The Herald would be departing for Val Royeaux without him, despite his protests. It was hard to argue one's advantages when he couldn't even get out of bed without assistance. 

Sleeping had been difficult — the pain which radiated from his thigh had disrupted any ability to dream, or to truly sleep at all. When he tired of continuing the farce of resting, he left the infirmary. One of the medics had fashioned a crutch for him, which eased the weight off of his injured leg and made walking marginally easier.

He found his companions having breakfast in the tavern, and he'd been immediately alarmed by the sight of it as they were all armored and dressed for travel. None had come to wake him, and the could have surely left without a word.

She noticed his arrival first, and frowned, “You should be resting.”

He had not thought they would be leaving so soon. A few days rest might have given him the ability to heal himself more thoroughly, so that he could be something other than entirely useless, but from the look on the Seeker's face he knew there would be no waiting for him to heal.

“It seems I have plenty of time to do that in your absence,” he replied, as he attempted to sit at the table with the appearance of one who hadn't been stabbed in the thigh not six days past.

“Sorry, Chuckles, but you're no good to us if we have to carry you,” the dwarf laughed, as he spread soft cheese and jam over a thick slice of oat bread.

“To be fair, I did suggest strapping you to a horse,” Tephra teased, not quite meeting his gaze as she fought the smile creeping across her mouth.

There it was again — the odd pull of her gravity. 

He was suddenly and acutely aware of his disappointment in being left behind. He'd gotten so used to her presence, that the sudden prospect of its absence was surprisingly disheartening.

“I'm not looking forward to going without his barriers, though,” Varric remarked. “Nothing but mages and templars running amok between us and Val Royeaux.”

“It is unfortunate that you were injured, Solas,” the Seeker agreed. There was something almost conspiratorial in the sharp look she shot towards the Herald, and the almost-smile as she mused, “Your magic has been an invaluable part of our group.”

Tephra frowned at the woman, as she shifted stiffly and pointedly avoided his gaze. 

Was the Seeker _teasing_ her?

He was clearly out of the loop on whatever had transpired between the two of them, and it curiously involved him. He could only expect it had something to do with the Herald's charade with the bandages the night before, and her fear of what the others might think of his having healed her. 

If any had been able to see through the charade, it would have been the Seeker. And perhaps, to her, it looked curiously like—

Solas cleared his throat, and said, “I had not intended to be injured, Seeker. Do forgive my passing out; it has been some time since I was last penetrated.”

The statement hung in the air, in the silence that fell over the table. Varric gave a cough, but politely held his tongue. The Herald, however, was struggling; the amusement was breaking across her face despite her best efforts not to laugh. A snort escaped her, and she turned her face away as she began to laugh.

He could not help but think that if her laugh were a mead, he would have readily gotten drunk on it each time she offered it — and that terrified him.

Cassandra gave a long-suffering sigh.

Solas turned his attention back to Tephra. He did not expect the answer to have changed, but still, he tried, “If you insist on tying me to a horse, I'm more than willing to allow it.”

“We've spoken of this already, Solas,” she reminded.

“Yet here we are, once again.”

“You're rather stubborn, aren't you?”

“A trait we share, I'm afraid,” he mused. “I do remember your insistence on departing Haven before you were fully recuperated after the Breach. If I must insist—”

“No,” Tephra interjected, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You need time to recover, and they need me to go to Val Royeaux. The sooner we speak with the clerics, the better.”

“Without—” Solas reached for the nearest excuse available to him, “—a healer?”

“Who says I am?” The Herald gave him a coy smirk, before adding, “Besides, I have survived most of my life without magical healing. I can manage a few weeks without yours.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. 

“If you still insist on departing for Val Royeaux immediately, then we should dispatch a unit to accompany you,” Commander Rutherford spoke up behind them. “They can begin the process of establishing outposts in various locations throughout Orlais.”

The ex-Templar was accompanied by the other two advisors, whom took their places at the table opposite of the Herald.

Solas paid little heed to their conversation amongst themselves and the Seeker of where to establish camps, of advantages and disadvantages, and how many scouts would be needed. Instead, he turned his focus back to the Herald, who'd gone quiet.

There was an old leather-bound laid open in front of her on the table, having seemingly materialized from nothing, and her marked hand loosely clutched a pen as she wrote in it. He could not see what she was writing, but it was clearly a passionate subject given the pace of her writing.

Now _this_ was curious. 

In his experience, very few Dalish were ever taught to read, let alone write. And she had enough confidence in her ability to be using a pen, rather than a pencil.

She caught him staring from the corner of her eye. She briefly stopped writing, and he saw her defenses lift ― slight frown, sudden rigid posture as if braced for impact. 

He offered an amiable smile, as he began, “A Dalish who can read and write, how—”

“Shocking, I'm sure,” she cut him off in a flat tone. She turned her attention back to the book as she continued to worry away at the paper with a furious scrawl, chasing whatever train of thought which meant to elude her.

Solas felt a flash of annoyance, but it was extinguished at the sight of a faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She was _teasing_ him.

_So quick to vexation_ , he chided himself. What was it about her that brought out his emotions — positive or negative — so strongly?

Solas let his irritation seep away, before asking, “Who taught you?”

“My father,” she remarked, offhandedly. 

He scooted down the bench to get a closer look at the book. It was terribly rude of him, but he was admittedly curious. The pages which were visible to him were a jumble of clustered notes, and the script was wholly foreign to him. Solas frowned, “Is that a cipher?”

_How fascinating._

Fondness warmed her face, as she said, “He was very fond of constructing cryptographs, as a hobby. He taught me this one, which he regarded as his best work.”

The thrill of discovery coursed through him, as though he'd just laid sight to an unexplored ruin, which was waiting to give up its secrets to him. His hands twitched in his lap with excitement, as he casually asked, “May I?”

Tephra gave an amused huff, before sliding the book toward him, “Knock yourself out.”

The symbols were complicated, and resembled no Thedosian writing system he was aware of. They arced and curved sharply, running into one another so closely as to be seemingly inseparable. It was complicated in structure, and utterly _fascinating_. 

It reminded him of Arlathan, of the rebel days he spent constructing his own coded missives. He very much wanted to try his hand at decoding it, as such things appealed to his endlessly curious nature. Not simply to know her thoughts, but to crack such an elaborately well-made cipher. Her father must have been frighteningly intelligent to have constructed it. 

Turning through the pages, he caught sight of a fragment of text that wasn't coded — it was old, slightly faded, and it clutched at him immediately as he read it.

_Why do we seek the past so restlessly? Why do we seek to know the ones who came before? How can we understand them, when they are so far away?_ Then, an addendum in furious scrawl. _We never will. We don't speak the same language, not anymore. But we are stubborn, and keep speaking to the ones who came before in hopes that they may one day hear us — and answer._

Grief — endlessly old, and endlessly sad — turned in its sleep in his chest and clawed at his heart.

Solas cleared his throat, and made a show of rifling through a few more pages before handing the book back to her. “Fascinating,” he noted. “Perhaps one day you might permit me an attempt at solving the cipher.”

She gave a throaty chuckle, “Perhaps.”

He knew that it was a sore subject for her, but curiosity compelled him to ask, “How did your father come to be so accomplished?”

The Herald regarded him a long moment with a measured look, as though suspicious of his intent. It quickly passed, and she relented, “My father's father was Keeper of his clan. He taught him everything he knew, and he learned much more on his own. He knew a scholar in Hercinia who would trade him books for rare herbs. He would read to me, and taught me as much as he could.”

He had no choice but to ask, “Is he with your clan, back home?”

He already knew the man's likely fate, but she did not know that he did, so asking about her father's whereabouts was the natural progression of the conversation. Still, he was pained to ask it of her, as the shadow of her grief flitted across her face.

“No,” she replied quietly. She cast a glance around the table to reassure herself that the others were not listening to their quiet conversation amidst the heated chatter about supplies and logistics and whatever else the advisors saw fit to argue over. “He's gone, along with my mother, and—” She turned the pen between her fingertips, staring hard at the book before her. With a sharp sigh, she closed the book and began to pack it away in her traveling pack, as she said, “All that I ever loved is long dead.”

It was no wonder she harbored such a vested interest in the Fade, and the fate of souls beyond death.

She gave a sharp sigh, as she eyed her advisors, “They're likely to argue right up to the moment we leave. I'd sooner wait with my horse.”

Leaving, and so soon; disappointment clutched sharply at his chest.

She gave him a sudden smile, “See that you let _this_ —” When she reached for his thigh, he stiffened. She stopped, and immediately diverted to clasp his arm with a gentle touch, “Do heal quickly, Solas.”

Once again, he found himself overwhelmed simply by being touched by her. The barest gesture, and unbearably brief, yet it rushed across his nerves like flashfire. She offered it so freely, as if it were nothing at all, and he accepted it greedily — as though starved, and made hollow after so many centuries of wandering the Fade alone.

He sat there stiffly, watching her rise and take her leave without a further word. Her advisors and the Seeker continued to argue as the Herald made her leave unnoticed. She'd only made it halfway through the tavern, when she stopped suddenly. From the tension in her posture, he was immediately aware of her fury. Solas rose from the bench to see what had caught her attention.

Through the myriad of conversations trickling through the crowded building, he heard the sudden sharp reprimand of a Chantry cleric, who was overseeing a group of refugee children gathered for their morning meal. The cleric was a wizened old woman who looked far too small for her robes, and was berating a young girl for not using her utensils properly. The cleric made the child hold out the palm of her hand above the table, before striking it sharply with a switch.

In a blur of movement, the Herald bounded up onto the table where the Chantry woman sat, sending various dishes clattering to the floor. The old woman stared in shocked as the Herald crouched before her, tense and still as a serpent ready to strike. A hush fell over the tavern, as all eyes turned to the spectacle unfolding.

The cleric feebly protested, “Your Worship—”

In a low dangerous tone, she said, “If you strike her again, I'll pull the eyes out of your head and shove them down your throat.”

Tephra plucked the switch from the old woman's hands and snapped it in two, as the cleric gaped at her. Tossing it aside, she straightened and used the height of the table to address the whole of the tavern, “If anyone harms a child under my protection, they will have to answer to me. That goes for all who serve the Inquisition, or have sought refuge with us.”

Without a further word, the Herald descended the table and left abruptly. 

In the startled silence that remained, the Seeker remarked, “I believe she is still troubled by the events we experienced in The Hinterlands.”

“Perhaps when you return from Val Royeaux, a sabbatical will do her good,” Josephine offered. “She needs time to consider who we must approach regarding the Breach, whether that is the templars or the mages.”

Varric huffed and grumbled, “Have any of you considered that perhaps all this shit might be too much to put on one person?”

With that, the dwarf also took his leave. 

Solas followed after at a slower pace, leaning heavily on his crutch. She'd had a good head start to the gates, but he found her idling outside and attending to her horse. It was young, dappled grey and spirited.

She'd brutalized the Ferelden saddle which had been affixed to the animal, cutting away the excess until it resembled something closer to what the Dalish used on their mounts. Light and efficient and less restrictive, so that she could dismount at a moment's notice. She had also spent a great deal of time bonding with it, patiently earning its trust and speaking to it in low tones until it followed even the quietest of commands. It reacted to the slightest of touches or the shift in the grip of her thighs, and altered its course accordingly.

At first, he'd found it curious that she would expend the effort to retrain the horse so thoroughly. It was only after their first proper battle in the Hinterlands that it became clear to him why she had done so. She had flown around the outskirts of the battle atop her mount, her body moving as one with the horse as she fired upon their opponents, and her arrows found their targets with brutal grace.

“What am I doing here, Solas?”

It was a useless question to ask, and she seemed aware of it. Yet still, she asked.

“The best you can, given the circumstances,” he replied. “No one else is coming to these people's aid. And none are attempting to quell the unrest, nor or attempting to close the Breach. For that, your Inquisition is honorable. I do admire the intent.”

She rounded on him sharply, “ _My_ Inquisition?”

“You are the Herald, are you not? In that way, it is yours,” he reminded, gently.

He could see the futile anger wrestling inside of her, before she sighed, “And yet?”

“All organizations fall prey to infighting, to corruption,” he replied. “It is inevitable. Do what good you can, while that power is available to you.”

“I'm _trying_ ,” she bit back sharply, before softening and averting her gaze back to fastening her pack to the horse's saddle. “You could go, if you wish. I would not let them stop you.”

“I am committed to seeing the Breach closed; I will not leave until that has been achieved,” he said, fighting the smile which threatened to break across his face. “Though I do appreciate your concern.”

“And if we fail?”

“Pray that is a day that never comes to pass,” he advised.

“ _Pray?_ ” she laughed. “To who? All the gods are gone, or so they say. Who should I pray to — the Wolf?”

The irony of it amused him, and he gave her a small smile, “Perhaps he will hear you.”

She gave an amused huff, “I prayed to him before, once. He isn't listening, either.”

It was a curious statement, coming from her, as she had so heartily denounced the gods of her people. Had she once believed, at some point before? What had she prayed for?

He was stirred from his thoughts by the sight of her producing the leather-bound book from her satchel. She held it out to him, with a look of warm amusement. Solas accepted it gingerly, as though she'd given him a priceless treasure.

Excitement coiled tightly in his gut, as he said, “You do realize that if I crack the cipher, I will be compelled to read this?”

His tone was teasing, but he was looking for her implicit consent. Otherwise, he could not bring himself to trespass into her private thoughts.

Tephra grinned, “If you can crack it, you're welcome to all of my secrets.”

“What will you write in, without this?”

“Varric is always stuffed to the gills with parchment. I'll manage.” With that, she hoisted herself up onto the horse. It whickered as she settled, and teased him, “Good luck with that, Solas. You're going to need it.”

With the barest touch of her foot, the horse bolted off to carry her where Varric idled down the road with his own horse as he waited for Cassandra.

He was reluctant to watch her go, but there was little to be done for it.

 

———

 

He waited all of one day before laying siege to the Herald's book.

There was little to occupy his mind during his waking days, as he'd found the Chantry library to be utterly lacking. He tried to distract himself with the few books he'd found of somewhat interesting subjects, but too often his focus shifted from the pages to peer over the edge of the book at hers, laying innocuously where he'd left it on the shelf.

It had been a futile endeavor, in the end, and he abandoned any pretense of putting it off any longer.

Sitting at the small desk which occupied the corner of the cabin, he meticulously inspected the leather covering and binding. It was expertly crafted with a secure binding, and had kept well over time. He suspected it had been one of her father's many books, possibly among the few scarce supplies which had been hastily packed to the halla before the children's escape from the bandit attack. 

Inside it, he found that the first few pages were filled with a crisp script by an unfamiliar hand, but was soon replaced very obviously by a child's. Her penmanship steadied over time, and grew smaller and sharper, with the space on each page fully utilized. There were also botanical drawings with notations, and long rambling passages of unknown subjects. Despite being unable to read most of it, he could tell some of the pages were complex recipes, perhaps medicinal or otherwise, as she did not encrypt the numbers and equations amongst the texts. And on many pages she had gone back to scrawl in the margins — upside down and sideways along other passages, likely unrelated to each other, as the blank space in the book became increasingly used up. Flipping to the end, he found that the last page had been intentionally left blank. The book was nearly full, with very little space left for her to record her thoughts or observations. 

Where had she gotten ink over the years, alone in that forest? If she'd had some from the supplies they'd fled with, wouldn't it have run out eventually? Or had she learned to make her own?

He spent hours pouring over the pages, collecting each of the many symbols to make a complete list. He quickly became sidetracked when he found another small passages written in the common tongue, which encouraged him to scour the entirety of the book for all the small fragments which had been left unencrypted. They were small glimpses into her life, both in the forest alone, as well as later, after she'd joined her clan. Quiet contemplations and fragments of grief, and struggling to belong to a people and way of life she'd been separated from. 

As he neared the middle of the book, a small bit of paper slipped from between the pages, and darted down between his legs to the floor. Solas grimaced as he shifted, and leaned down to retrieve it. 

Solas grimaced as he shifted, and leaned down to retrieve it.

It was old and faded, but the ink remained strong. It was a lover's note in Elvhen script, written by her mother — he assumed — and intended for her father.

Ephram—  
Enansal, ma lath.  
—Tirra

Her mother had likely bound the book herself, and given it as a gift to her spouse. It was a frail slip of parchment, and he tucked it gently back into the book with a careful hand. It was then, that he saw it.

Leading rebellions and living as long as he'd had afforded him an almost natural predisposition to ciphers, to looking for hidden meanings in words, written or otherwise. He looked first at the mother's name, and then the father's, as he realized that the Herald's name was an amalgam of both.

_Fond of cryptographs_ , indeed, he mused.

The Herald's name had once been nonsensical to him, but now seemed poetic in how it honored the love of the two who'd conceived her. 

When he finally retired for the night, he laid awake a long time going over prior events, which inevitably led him to seeking out those particular memories in the Fade. Despite the distance, he could feel the gravity of her through the Anchor which connected them. It made finding her in the dreaming almost too easy, as he was drawn almost unavoidably to her when he slept. Drawn, as lodestone drew iron.

How could a non-mage, let alone one who wasn't a Dreamer, exert such gravity in the Fade? Was it the Anchor magnifying how loudly her dreams resonated, as she unknowingly transmitted and drew the attention of so many spirits? They hovered at the edges of her dreams, drawn by the power of the mark and the strength of her emotions. 

He made attempts to avoid her in the Fade, searching instead for any sign of Wisdom, but it was a futile endeavor. He always found himself circling back, caught in the currents of their shared memories. He'd revisit conversations they'd had, seeking answers to the riddle of her existence, to what made her different — of what made her _more_. He also found himself returning far too often to the small moments of contact which had transpired between them — accidental, or otherwise.

He was appalled by his own loneliness. Its depths only became more apparent to him as the days dragged into weeks. 

Other nights, he slipped into an old familiar form to stalk the nightmares which seemed to hound her so often in the dreaming. He was not all that surprised, given the griefs she carried. Such things tended to draw the gaze of spirits who fed on such emotions.

In the end, extended convalescence proved to be a unique test in the extent of his patience. One of which he was failing, with nothing to fully occupy him between dreaming and pouring over the puzzling cryptographs in the waking world. 

It was maddening, at times, to be so weak — to be practically mortal. 

Reports came in often of the Inquisition's progress, as camps were secured and their influence spread, but often there was little said of the Herald herself. The last communication mentioning her had come from the Seeker, detailing a confrontation between Val Royeaux's Chantry clerics and Lord Seeker Lucius and his templars. The encounter had ended with the Lord Seeker withdrawing all of the templar forces from Val Royeaux, leaving it effectively defenseless.

Since then, there had been nothing, until a missive came during dinner one night as he was feigning interest in his stew and listening to the chatter between the advisors. The Herald had been invited to the chateau of Duke Bastien de Ghislain, to meet with Vivienne de Fer, the First Enchanter of Montsimmard. The meeting had ended with the Enchanter joining with the Inquisition, and they would be expecting her arrival shortly. 

As he rose and moved to depart, the Ambassador called after him. “Oh, Solas? There was a letter for you.”

His surprise was genuine, as he turned back to the Antivan woman. She held a small envelope out to him.

“Thank you, Ambassador,” he replied automatically, as he took the letter from her and tucked it into his vest. “If you'll excuse me, I intend to retire for the night.”

“Of course. If you have need of anything, the healers are at your disposal.”

He resisted the urge to leave more quickly than his limping gait allowed, and he did not open the letter until he'd returned to the privacy of his cabin.

Settling on the bed, he retrieved the letter from his vest and looked it over. The envelope was unmarked, but for his name. Briefly, his pulse spiked from sudden alarm that one of his agents could have been foolish enough to send a missive directly to him through the Inquisition's scouts, but it was quickly dispelled as he broke the wax seal and looked over the letter, as his sight was met with her familiar handwriting.

_Have you cracked the cipher yet?_  
_I suspect not._  
_—Tephra_

It was a playful taunt, which brought a smile to his face, and a laugh bubbling out from some deep well in his chest. It was at once pleasant, and painful.

He turned the page over, but there was nothing else. He'd hoped for—

More. 

_Anything._

All that she offered of herself, however small, was never enough. He found himself greedily taking all that she offered, like some half-starved vagrant snatching at scraps. 

The letter only served to make his dreaming more restless, which was already compounded by the healing wound in his leg. It itched something fierce as it stitched itself anew. He was not used to healing as mortals healed, and his magic was still unbearably limited. His strength was trickling back to him, but he was still weakened from uthenera. He could not manipulate viscera and sinew with the ease he had once been able to, and could only coax it gently each day into healing marginally faster than it was already. It time, that would change, but for now he had no other option than to wait.

The next morning, he found himself restless still, and sought some semblance of peace outside of the village with meditating in solitude. It soon became his daily routine, drifting back and forth from the dreaming as he went over their conversations as well as coordinated various operations with his agents stationed throughout Thedas, before retreating back to study the cipher in hopes of cracking it before she returned. 

He very much wanted impress her with the feat of doing so, yet it continued to elude him.

His routine was disrupted one morning, when one of the refugee children found him in the woods outside Haven. 

The children of this world were not much different from the children of the old world — small bundles of energy, bustling and bursting and bounding through the township. Tiny terrors of mischief and glee. He'd escaped their notice, for a time, until a dark-haired girl interrupted his meditations one morning. 

“What are you doing?”

He had gone further from the town this morning, and into the woods to find the tree he'd found the Herald in, all those nights ago. He'd sat against it, as he had before, meditating and considering slipping into the dreaming to revisit the memory of that night. 

Everything had been so much simpler back then, when he thought courting her trust was merely an advantage — a logical move to make, and not a perilous trap waiting to ensnare him.

“Meditating,” he replied, without opening his eyes.

“You're the Herald's apostate, aren't you? The Chantry sisters said you know everything about the Fade,” the girl said. “Does that mean you can talk to the dead?”

Solas opened his eyes and regarded the child with a measured look, “That is not how it works, I'm afraid.”

She was human, and one of the children from the cabin fire. She sighed, “It's okay. I didn't think you really could, either.”

“Then why seek me out?”

“I was curious,” she admitted.

Solas smiled, despite himself, “A good motivation to have, in all things.”

“Will you keep her safe?” The girl shifted from one boot, to the other, as she clarified, “The Herald.”

“To my best ability,” he assured. 

“She was with you in the wagon, you know,” the girl informed. “I brought her things to eat because she wouldn't leave you. And water when she asked for it, for you.”

It was an odd thing — caring. 

He had forgotten how nice it could be to have the concern of another.

“You should not wander this far from the town,” he advised, ignoring the pleasant sensation the child's information had brought him. He had not known she'd stayed with him the whole time he was unconscious. “You should return, before you worry your family.”

The girl glowered at him, clearly displeased at being dismissed, before departing. 

When he was alone once more, Solas allowed himself to drift into the dreaming. 

He was met not with memories of the night she'd fled Haven, but of another, out in the Hinterlands. Sitting by the campfire, and occasionally breaking the silence by asking him questions as the others slept.

“They were spirits, first, weren't they? The demons from the rifts.”

“Correct,” he had replied, enjoying her receptivity to the truth. “Being drawn through the tears in the Veil has twisted their nature and made demons of them. They are victims of the Breach just as we are.”

She'd rested her chin atop her knees as she watched the fire, and said, “I feel sorry for them. They didn't ask for this anymore than I did.”

It had been just another small thing, thundering in and surprising him when he'd least expected it, and reminding him that she was not what he had expected at all.

The scene shifted, as he thought of the cabin incident in the Hinterlands. Of after, when she sank into the water and let her fury and grief tear out of her in a wordless cry of frustration for having not saved the little boy.

He approached the same way as he had before — slowly stepping around her, and crouching in the water to bring himself down to her level. He regarded her for a long time, as the memory stalled in that moment before he reached for her burned arms, as he studied the depth of her emotions wrought raw and raging across her face.

It was different than simply being able to sense her emotions. Even here in the Fade, it was difficult, but this moment — something had woken in him, and _seen_ her pain with startling clarity.

Before, he'd felt sympathy for those of this world and the pain they endured, as one might feel for the suffering of lesser creatures. They may have not been people, but he still did not wish to seem them in such a terrible way. But watching one throw themselves into the fire, to save their own, to exacting such brutal vengeance for the senseless death, to—

In that moment, he had sensed her pain. Not the wounds on her arms, but the pain vibrating from her soul and across her face. Something had opened in him, which had been closed to this world and its occupants, and forced him to feel what they felt. It had humbled him, after, to watch them treat their dead with such care.

And then later, in the tavern. Her quiet grief and restless fury at the world around her, which had locked him in place and forced him to acknowledge her. He'd done her such a disservice in being such a poor conversationalist, but in truth she had so thoroughly caught him off guard with her seemingly casual wisdom. It seemed effortless to her, and he could not help but wonder if it was manifested by the Anchor's presence in her.

Still, he lingered there, in that moment when she'd forced him to _look_ , to truly consider her as something more than a shadow playing at a person. Reaching across the table, across the seemingly impassable gulf he'd cultivated between himself and this wretched world, and took hold of him. Made him meet her defiant gaze, and acknowledge her.

Even now, he could feel the burn of her skin against his. The lightest of touches, yet it had commanded his full attention.

“And so you have found yourself at the crossroads,” a familiar voice intoned.

Solas startled, and the Fade shifted around him in formless shades of color as he quickly disentangled himself from the memory. He had not sensed Wisdom's approach, and did not know the extent in which it had observed the repeated examinations of his memories — of her.

“I am heartened to see you safe, my friend,” Solas replied, pointedly avoiding the spirit's observation.

“Many have sought safety in the deepest reaches. Curiosity and understanding has brought me back to observe the fates unfolding.” The spirit drifted through the remnants of the memory, which were quickly fading back into the formless raw energy of the Fade. “You are drawn to this one,” it noted, with curiosity. “Why?”

This was their oldest dance — of seeking and sharing, of asking and answering. At times, the spirit's observations and responses were straightforward; at other times, it amused itself with answering in riddles and prompts. 

“Necessity,” he replied.

The spirit made no movement as it pulled remnants of the memory back into being, and the Herald's voice echoed through Wisdom.

“Sometimes, when you look at me, it's like you're looking through me. It's the same with the others, too. As though we're not quite real to you,” the spirit parroted. Wisdom tilted its head, “Are they not? They still dream.”

“Technically, but they are deaf and mute,” he countered, heatedly. “Their dreaming is no better than the basest biological function for them — an involuntary twitch from a muscle they no longer remember how to use. They are no better than _Tranquil_.”

The spirit continued to regard him with a sharpness that cut through him.

It occurred to him that it was the same look Lavellan so often mirrored, with eyes that saw far too much.

“Is that so?” the spirit queried. “Then what is it that draws you to her dreams?”

Of course Wisdom would know of that, as well. And _that_ he did not have an answer for — at least not one he was willing to admit, even to himself.

“She carries my Anchor,” he replied. “It has, perhaps in some way, bound her to me in the dreaming.”

The spirit brightened with amusement, drifting in his periphery as it declared, “I have not known you to fear the seeking of truth, of where it might lead you. Do you prefer the comfortable lies in which you tell yourself to ease your guilt?”

Solas startled, and turned himself to keep pace with the spirit as he argued, “They are _not_. I have seen that they are not.”

“How can you know, if you do not look?” Wisdom chided. “You cannot seek truth — seek _wisdom_ — without being willing to lose all that you cling to. You know this, Solas.”

“The path,” he conceded.

His oldest and truest ambition — knowing and understanding the truth of all things. It was not simply one path, but a many-forking network of crossroads and detours, an endless journey of seeking. This was not his first such impasse; it would not be his last.

“You have lost yourself many times on the path to truth,” Wisdom reminded. “You need not fear change, nor where it leads you.”

“It is my fault that they are not whole. I cannot condemn them for what is not their doing,” Solas conceded. The truth of it was an old knot in his chest, too stubborn to be pried from where it had hardened, and turned to stone. 

“How many moves ahead did you really consider, Solas? Were you prepared for all the possible consequences of your actions?”

“I thought I was,” he replied, quietly. “I had no other choice.”

“No, you did not,” the spirit agreed. “We remain because you acted against the Evanuris. The world is still here because of what you achieved. It does not undo what has been done, though. We have paid the price of survival — we have all been sundered.”

“I know, my friend.” His grief was a raw abyss, for which he had no manner of escaping. “That is a debt I intend to pay, to restore what was lost. Whatever the cost,” he assured.

It was a debt he owed to all, and the world itself.

Wisdom regarded him with curiosity, “Are you so certain you're willing to pay that price? It is not an easy thing to sail into the eye of the storm and face one's destruction.”

“I must,” he replied, simply.

“And here is the crossroads,” the spirit reminded. It shifted and brightened, amused by the complications and implications, as it observed, “You have considered telling her.”

“Of?” he asked, uselessly feigning ignorance.

“Yourself,” the spirit lilted. “But fear keeps the truth silent in your mouth.”

He had considered, far too often lately, that she might be capable of understanding, of accepting the whole truth of himself. It had become a dangerous preoccupation, which threatened to divert him from his course. His alarm resonated in the Fade around them, disrupting wisps from where they nested in the rocks. 

“The fear of revealing one's true self is not a misplaced fear, Solas,” Wisdom advised.

“Perhaps not, but what I must accomplish outweighs everything, even this. I cannot afford to be distracted, even by—”

Companionship? Understanding? 

He couldn't begin to hope for more than even the smallest of what she offered, let alone—

“You have wanted for understanding,” Wisdom noted. “Does she not?”

“I haven't given her the chance to,” he admitted. 

“But you have seen she is capable.”

Solas thought of her, throwing herself into the fire to save children. Her anger at the world, and not just for her own people, but for all who suffered. If she knew why they suffered as they did, and all that led to this miserable world's existence, would she understand? If she knew she courted the companionship of her people's long-feared _Dread Wolf_ , would she continue to seek his company? Or would she recoil and condemn him, as all the rest had?

“It is our nature to seek understanding and companionship,” the spirit mused. “To seek one who identifies with what we think, or feel. Elements of empathy. There is no longer an echo. They speak to that part of us which no other has spoken to before.”

“I have that with you, my friend,” Solas replied. 

Wisdom was one of his oldest companions, immutable and reliable in its nature, one of his last links to the world that was — and _safe_. 

But her? 

Perilous, in how easily and willingly he would drown himself in the ocean of her. And if she was real, then they all could be as well.

His mind reeled from that prospect, as if burned. 

He'd killed the world once, and its people. He had told himself it would not be the same this time, unmaking this one to bring the old world back.

But if they were, then—

It was too much.

“What we have is not the same,” the spirit reminded. It was not its nature to coddle him, however stubborn and prideful he could be. “People are of the waking world, as is what you seek. We spirits are only reflections now.”

It continued, “You fool yourself with half-truths to move forward — _not real, not people, no path but forward_ — but this will not ease your burden. The truth may not, either. This is the nature of knowing. You are at the crossroads of what once was, what is now, and what may be. There is always a choice, Solas, and no matter the circumstances, you must always _choose_. See them, or don't. All of the mitigating excuses of avoiding it are of your own making.”

How could he even begin to consider a different path? There were no options left to him, but to save what remained of his people and of the world itself. There was no middle ground that could be reached between the two. There was only the world that was before, where everything sang the same, where everything was whole and unbroken, where his people had thrived — and the world as it was now, whose song was abject silence, where they withered, sundered into shadow.

As its presence began to recede back into the Fade, Wisdom intoned, “This will be the hardest thing you will ever do, my friend.”

He woke, still sitting against the tree, heavy with the burden of choosing truth.

He owed it to her to try.

Rising, he began backtracking toward Haven. He had not gotten far, when he heard the soft sound of a crying child. He followed it to a small glade, which was sparsely filled with aspen trees. Its center was occupied by the girl who had interrupted his meditations earlier. 

She was huddled down in a squat, with her face buried in her hands. When she heard his approach, she bolted up and wiped at her face furiously.

“Are you—” he began to say.

“I _wasn't_ ,” she insisted, despite her flushed, tear-stained face.

“My mistake, it seems,” he replied. “You did not return to Haven. What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“Practicing.”

“For?”

She gestured at the tree nearest to her; its trunk was besieged by small, haphazard sheets of ice. 

_Of course._

An apostate's child, who was now thoroughly afraid of being caught in a fire again.

“I'm not very good at it,” she admitted, miserably.

He could not help but soften for the child, as he said, “Because it is harder to channel magic without a focus. However, if your intent is strong enough, you can manage without one. May I show you a helpful trick?”

She looked at him curiously, before consenting with a nod.

“Take off your boots,” he instructed.

“My—”

“Off,” he reaffirmed, brooking no argument. When she continued to gape at him, he said, “Bear with me, if you would.”

Finally relenting, the girl shucked off one boot, and then the other. She hopped in the snow, and exclaimed, “It's too cold!”

“It is precisely as cold as it needs to be,” he said, before turning her by the shoulders to face the tree she'd been practicing her spells on. “Now calm yourself, and focus. Feel the ice beneath your feet, and hold it in your mind. Will it to go where you wish it to be.”

The girl trembled with effort to remain still, before reaching her hand toward the tree. He felt her repeated attempts in the residual mana building in the air around them, before it finally burst forth.

Great arcing sheets of ice enclosed the aspen, stretching up into its bough.

The girl gave a shrieking whoop as she hopped forward in the snow. Then she was cursing, and scrambling to put her boots back on. The girl turned back to him, grinning as she said, “Thank you, Mister Solas.”

“You are quite welcome,” he replied, as he subdued his smile.

“Audra,” she insisted. “That's my name.”

The child's insistence for acknowledgment mirrored that of the Herald's, as if to remind him.

_“My name is Tephra.”_

“Yes, of course it is.”

The girl cocked her head and regarded him with a curious frown, “Were you leaving to go meet her?”

“Who?”

"The Herald. The soldiers said she's returning today. I heard them talking about it,” she replied, matter-of-factly. 

His pulse jumped, and his heart began to beat an erratic pace. “You should return to town. Night will be falling soon.”

“Will you teach more, another time?”

“If you return to Haven, and do not wander, I will consider it,” he replied.

She gave a fierce, dimpled grin, and bolted off into the direction of the town.

Solas turned his attention to discerning the magic of his Anchor, which had been embedded in the Herald. He could sense it in the dreaming, or when she was close enough for his senses to pick up on the residual energy. He sensed it now, faint, but growing as she drew nearer to Haven. Its magic called to him, even over the distance which separated them. She was not terribly far, somewhere near the road which ran from Haven to Redcliffe.

What had she'd been doing in Redcliffe? There had been no messages about them diverting to the Hinterlands from Orlais. Had something happened, that hadn't been mentioned to him?

Frustrated, he continued on through the trees. 

It would not be difficult to find her, and his gait had improved over the last week, with only a minimal limp left as evidence of the almost-healed wound. Still, the knot of scar tissue inside his thigh impeded the fluidity of his movements. It would take time to dissolve it and replace it with healthy muscle. 

He began southward, letting the pull of the Anchor guide him.

He did not attempt to quell his growing excitement to see her again. 

Whatever this was — wherever this path meant to take him — he could not help but let it unfold.

Solas caught sight of her striding through the forest before she was aware of his approach. He stopped to watch her, as her path was bringing her almost directly to him. She was thoroughly engaged with tracking something through the forest by its footprints, likely some prey animal he had inadvertently sent fleeing in his approach. She held her bow aloft, with an arrow resting on the mounting and ready to be nocked.

She caught sight of him between the trees in her peripheral, and startled. She moved with an automatic, deadly grace, as she nocked and loosed in the blink of an eye.

He raised a barrier just in time to deflect the arrow. It glanced off the magic harmlessly. 

“Pissing hell, Solas!”

“Greetings to you, too, Herald.”

She bristled with outrage, “I could have—”

“You didn't,” he reassured, with amusement. There was an odd warmth pooling in his stomach, at the sight of her. “Welcome back.”

She stared at him a long moment, furious, before giving a sharp sigh.

“Good to see you've lost the crutch,” she grumbled, as she brushed roughly past him. 

It was a purposeful contact, shoulder into shoulder. Something like an accident, like a misstep — but infinitely not. 

He felt almost dizzy as he turned on his heel to follow her.

“Come, you should meet the others,” she said.

“Others?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was nervous writing Wisdom, as their appearance in the game was so brief, and offered so little of their relationship and rapporte with Solas. I hope I did it justice.


	13. Hurry Up And Save The World, Right?

I imagine you in every possible direction, and then I cover my tracks and imagine you all over again.  
Sometimes I can’t stand how much of you I don’t know.  
_—Leslie Jamison, The Empathy Exams_

If I seem to be caught in a slow circling of the subject, it is only appropriate,  
as she and I have always moved toward each other in slow circles.  
_—Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind_

 

 

Sailing was something that Solas was decidedly unaccustomed to.

He never harbored much interest in life on the seas, or the lands beyond them, so he'd never bothered to search those particular memories out in the Fade. Perhaps if he had, he would have been better prepared for it in the waking world. Though this was not the sea they were sailing across, merely Lake Calenhad, it was still a massive body of water and far from calm. 

There was something incredibly unnerving to him about open water, with no land in sight. It spoke to him of a time before, of abyssal voids and the world before there was a Veil, only without the ability to control one's stability or sense of gravity. Of falling into the deepest Fade, where even light did not dwell. The ceaseless pitch and sway of the boat beneath his feet was disorienting, and disrupted his sense of balance. Worse, his stomach seemed to have gone into full revolt, much to their new companion's endless amusement.

The elf — if one could even call her such — gave a sharp laugh, as she cheerily continued to fletch arrows while carelessly perched on the railing of the boat. How she managed to do so without toppling into the water below from the ship's swaying was beyond him. “Got anything left in there, or did you toss it all on the last go?” 

He hadn't had much time to observe the elf, but it was strikingly clear — even at a glance — that she was far from what she had meant to be. It made him curious, though, to see if the latent connections still resided in her — to the Fade, to the Elvhen language, to her true self.

It was something he looked forward to investigating, when his stomach wasn't attempting to violently launch itself up through his throat.

“Pretty sure he's gotta be empty by now, Buttercup,” the dwarf mused, from where he sat on a stack of crates with a book in his lap. 

Sera gave another laugh, “Even his ears have gone all green.”

The Seeker spoke up beside him, with a note of concern, “If you are so terribly adverse to sailing, Solas, you could have stayed in Haven with Madam de Fer. Your leg is still healing, is it not?”

The former Orlesian court Enchanter had arrived with a full traveling party in tow, multiple carriages stuffed to bursting with unnecessary possessions, and the impression of being the sole authority on mages amongst the Inquisition. She was certainly not pleased to see him, nor learn of his particular role as the “Fade expert”. 

What few conversations they'd had thus far had been strained, at best.

“And miss out on this adventure, Seeker? Hardly,” he replied, straightening from where he'd been resting his forehead against the banister of the railing. He turned to press the small of his back against it, holding on tightly for ballast.

“You'll change your mind soon enough, Chuckles,” Varric grumbled. “They don't call it the _Sunshine_ Coast for a reason.”

Cassandra shot the dwarf an amused look, “You could have stayed behind, as well.”

Varric laughed, and shook his head, “I'll take mercenaries over clerics any day, Seeker.”

Solas's attention shifted to the mercenary who'd prompted this outing in this first place; a young man, who'd identified himself as Cremisius Aclassi. 

Mercenary or not, he was every young person who flocked to a cause, looking for glory and validation and camaraderie in the common struggle against those who would subjugate them. So it was only natural that the mercenary gravitated toward the Herald, as she had become the symbol of the Inquisition. 

Yet, he knew with startling clarity that what was now awe and admiration would soon become fear and deification, as she became increasingly elevated above those around her — until apotheosis rendered her into myth, and made her entirely unreachable.

It was like watching his past play out in front of him, like some macabre construction of the Fade parroting his memories — only with different faces, in a different world. 

The Herald neither dismissed nor rebuffed Aclassi's company, and spent a good portion of the time on the ferry listening as he regaled her with stories of the mercenary company he belonged to.

The sight of it only seemed to magnify his sense of alienation and loneliness. He wasn't sure if it was envy that he felt, or perhaps just a sense of longing. He had not felt such an easy kinship with another, not since the time of his people, and not at all in this one. It made him insatiable, and he would have gladly stolen all of her time, if she let him.

_You've already stolen all of her time,_ he chided himself. _Her whole life, in fact. She's living on borrowed time because of you._

Every look, every moment, every word to her was painted in the guilt and the grief he carried for what was done to her. Each time that she came to him, seeking him out for company or to ask questions, the stolen power in her hand sang out to him as a reminder of what little time she had left. 

_Do you really suppose that she would come to you all the same, if she knew the truth?_

Something the mercenary said elicited Tephra's laughter, and Solas's stomach heaved and rolled. 

“Is he flirting with her? That is not... appropriate,” the Seeker remarked.

Varric gave an incredulous laugh, “What's _appropriate?_ She's a grown woman, and she can decide for herself whose company to keep. Or does the Inquisition own her personal life now, too?”

“I did not mean it like that,” Cassandra retorted. “Only that we know nothing of this... _Krem_ , or his fellow mercenaries. They could have been paid to lure the Herald to a conveniently remote location in order to assassinate her.”

“She's _laughing_. She doesn't do that very often if you've happen to notice, Seeker,” he replied. “You've taken enough from her, haven't you? The least you could leave her is that.”

Cassandra sighed, “Yes, you would think it is my sworn duty to keep her miserable.”

Solas left the two to their argument, not wishing to be the third wheel to their bickering.

Yet, the dwarf was right.

What small kindness and peace she could find in this world, with the time left to her, was wholly her own. He could only hope to add to it, to give her what relief he could, and to not have the gall to expect anything in return for it. 

His thigh had not troubled him much in the past few days, but the sway of the boat overworked the muscles in his legs as he attempted to keep steady on his feet, which woke the angry knot of scar tissue in his thigh. It would still take some time to dissolve it with healing magic, and restore the muscle anew. Until then, it was an annoyance to be endured.

Solas walked the perimeter of the ship in a slow, steady pace, as he kept his eyes on the horizon to maintain a sense of equilibrium. It did not banish his seasickness, but it did serve to diminish it for a time. 

The other passengers of the ferry consisted mostly of merchants, as well as Inquisition reinforcements for the camps being established in The Coastlands. He could not help but observe the unease and bemusement of the merchants, as they in turn eyed the soldiers. 

The presence of heavily-armored soldiers, regardless of whatever emblem or insignia they bore, often made most rational people uneasy.

When Solas tired of walking, he sought out the Herald again. Surely, she had tired of mercenary's bravado by now. Yet, when he found her idling at the stern, he was dismayed to see that Aclassi had been replaced by the Tevinter mage who'd followed her back from Redcliffe. 

He could hardly be all that surprised, though, given that as the Inquisition grew and her companions became more numerous, her time would be a highly sought-after commodity. 

Solas wasn't quite sure what to make of Dorian, but his first impression was that of most nobles — brightly colored birds showing off their plumage, preening for attention. Likely some Magister's son, bored of court life and looking for a bit of excitement as well as the disapproval of his parents. 

That was another thing which had not changed from the time of his people.

The Tevinter was leaning against the railing in a relaxed slouch, which spoke to some degree of familiarity between the two. As Solas neared them, he caught the end of Dorian's excited barrage of questions directed at Tephra.

“—how you would even _produce_ it. How do you extract the desired compounds? What's your refining process? Do the Dalish even have glassmakers?”

Tephra's gaze shifted to Solas, in acknowledgement of his arrival. The corner of her mouth quirked, briefly, before she turned her attention back to Dorian. She feigned ignorance, and deadpanned, “What's glass?”

The Tevinter gaped, before erupting into a hearty laugh.

She continued, “My people of the Dales have beggared half of Orlais with their beadwork, or so they claim. Nearly every Orlesian I met in Val Royeaux saw fit to complain of it to me, never mind the hole in the sky.”

“Priorities, of course,” Dorian remarked, with dark humor. When he caught sight of Solas, he straightened and said, “Ah, it seems our dalliance must be postponed. Another of your suspicious friends has need of you. Another time, perhaps? I want to hear more of this Dalish alchemy.”

With that, the Tevinter bowed with a flourish, before departing.

Though he was not sad to see him go, Solas said, “I did not mean to chase your new companion away.”

Tephra fixed him with a small smile, “Yet here you are, like a wolf to the herd.”

He arched an eyebrow, “And what has prompted bestowing me with such an odd metaphor?”

“You've been tailing me all day,” she remarked, highly amused. “Observing, assessing — waiting to pounce once you finally found me alone.”

Solas gave an uneasy chuckle as he moved to lean against the railing, trying and failing to not appear half as sick as he felt. 

“I heard you've been a bit seasick,” Tephra remarked.

“This isn't the sea.”

“Lucky for you,” she laughed, as she pulled a small vial from her pocket and held it out to him in offering. It contained a fine, pearl-white powder. “Put this in your waterskin, and sip it each time you feel the nausea coming back.”

“An apothecary as well, it seems,” he noted. It explained the subject of the conversation he'd interrupted. Curious, he remarked, “I was not aware the Dalish sought many scholarly pursuits outside of clan leaders and their Firsts.”

She gave an annoyed huff, and said, “If you'd prefer to fondle the railing for the duration of the trip, you're welcome to it.”

“Ir abelas, that was rude of me,” Solas replied. As if to emphasis his point, the boat lurched beneath them as he said, “I am not accustomed to this.”

“To what? Sailing? Or to Dalish knowing things?” Tephra plucked the waterskin from his pack and began adding the medicinal powder to it, as she said, “As it happens, I'm fairly accustomed to both, so perhaps you might trust me on this, Solas.” 

She handed the waterskin back to him, and said, “Drink.”

There was a playful edge to his tone, as he asked, “Is that an official command, Herald?”

“If it must be,” Tephra replied, with dark amusement.

The tension which seemed to course through him now each time they spoke alone, regardless of subject, was a pleasing distraction. As were the small, purposeful liberties he could take — such as a seemingly accidental brush of his fingers against hers while reclaiming his waterskin — which she did not seem to mind at all.

It was dizzying, the effect she had on him. 

His head swam as he drank from the waterskin, and his fingers burned from the brief contact of her skin. 

Tephra, however, wasn't the least bit flustered. If she harbored any interest in him beyond simple curiosity, the Herald was very good at keeping it to herself. 

As he sealed the waterskin, Solas remarked, “You've never mentioned an interest in alchemy.”

“You've never asked,” she remarked, simply.

“That is true,” he conceded.

“You've still got my book,” Tephra reminded. She gave a crooked smile, and teased, “Is it not giving up all of my secrets yet?”

“Perilously few, I admit,” Solas replied. “Though I will say you are quite proficient at botanical sketches.”

“ _Proficient?_ Such high praise, coming from you.”

Solas sighed through his nose and shifted against the railing, and asked, “Was your father an apothecary? Or an alchemist?”

“He was many things, as was my mother,” she said. “They often worked together to make medicine and other things for the clan, and for trade.”

When she turned her dark, curious gaze to him once again, he knew what she meant to ask — of his origin — and _that_ was decidedly too complicated to touch upon. He diverted quickly, “You haven't said much of your time in Orlais. Did you not enjoy yourself in the capital city?”

The abrupt change in topic flustered her, but she thankfully let the subject drop. She turned to lean against the railing and frowned at the water below, “It was a spectacle of decadence and charades. You'll forgive me if I wasn't impressed.”

He would have liked to have been there and to have seen her reaction to the city, and the people who inhabited it. “Not even a little?”

She fixed him with a measured look, before remarking, “There was a place where they queued for hours just to sit and eat tiny pastries adorned in gold. They're _eating_ their wealth, while people are starving everywhere else. It was obscene.”

A sudden, sharp sense of pride gripped him, to see such a rejection of wealth and privilege by one so young. It had taken him far too long to reject it himself, to see the injustices beyond the glamour, and to be moved to act against it.

Tephra fell into a brooding silence beside him, and took no notice of his discrete scrutiny. 

It was a careful, cautious indulgence — brief glances that traced the sharp lines of her jaw, and the soft contours of her mouth. He wondered if she had ever eaten anything remotely decadent in her life. Being that the Dalish were a practical people, and that their nomadic lifestyle left little room for luxuries, he highly doubted it. 

He could not help the sudden, idle thought of bestowing such a pleasure upon her. It mattered little if it were decadent, or plain — whether it were a finely crafted meal or simply a perfectly ripened peach — only that he very much desired to see her enjoy something. For all that had happened to her since the Breach, for all that was yet to come, she deserved whatever small comforts she could get, as often as she could. And he found himself compelled to do just that, to offer what he could, to please her, to—

Solas averted his gaze and cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone perilously dry. “Speaking of decadence, that Tevinter mage—”

“He's ridiculous,” she huffed. A breath later, she declared, “And I adore him.”

That Dorian had accomplished as much in such a short time, was an enviable feat. And more troubling, she seemed as equally — if not more — fond of the crass city elf, as well. From what little he'd seen of her interactions with Madame de Fer, he could sense that Tephra had a striking fascination with the woman, despite her dislike of wealth.

“An Orlesian court Enchanter, a Tevinter nobleman, and... Sera,” he mused. “You have collected quite the assortment of companions in your time away, Herald.”

“Ah, yes, I have missed the warm embrace of your disapproval,” Tephra sighed.

He turned back to her, “Did I say that I disapproved?”

She fixed him with a look of dark amusement, “We both know you say far more with what you don't say, Solas. You just enjoy making a game of it.”

Her observation caught him off guard, and it took considerable effort to not react to it.

Tephra continued, “Vivienne gave up her position to join us. A gamble, perhaps, but I would not have taken her if I didn't think her concern was genuine. Dorian is ridiculous, and he's also incredibly intelligent. He knows things that I don't, and I need him for that. And Sera — should I only accept the help of the wealthy, of those who bring connections? She wants to help, and she wants to knock a few “rich tits” on their asses in the process. I'm fine with that.”

“Well said,” he conceded. Almost playfully, he asked, “So what does this humble apostate have to offer that neither a court Enchanter, nor a Tevinter mage can?”

He knew that his position within the Inquisition, his knowledge, was indispensable. She did not hesitate to seek his opinions, or his assistance on matters she felt beyond her capabilities. And yet, it pleased him to hear it from her nonetheless.

Was it really so prideful of him to want to be needed?

_Perhaps so, but you never could rid yourself entirely of prideful things._

She eyed him carefully as she considered her response, and the brief drop of her gaze did not escape his notice. His stomach clenched, as her eyes lingered briefly at his mouth before darting away as she laughed. 

“Who else is going to remind me of all the things I'm wrong about?” she asked.

It was confirmation of nothing, and yet the warmth which settled over him was near-suffocating. He let the sway of the boat, and the gravity of her, pull him a step closer as he mused, “I would have hoped to have more to offer than just—”

“Ah, there you are!” 

Solas shifted back a step as Varric approached, appearing as if he'd manifested from nothing. There was nothing to betray him to either her, or the dwarf, but for the pounding of his pulse in his ears — which he was grateful for the fact that neither could hear.

“Seeker wants you, Teph,” Varric informed. “She's got half the boat looking for you.”

“Of course,” the Herald sighed, with weary acceptance. “Duty never ends.”

The dwarf laughed, “Hurry up and save the world, right?”

The laugh she gave was brittle, and she began after Varric. She stopped, and turned on her heel to call back, “Stories.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile, and added, “Also questions, and sometimes answers. That's what you give me, Solas.”

He watched her go with reluctance. 

The dwarf remained behind, and moved to take the Herald's place at the railing. He gestured at Solas's thigh, “How's the leg?”

“Inconvenient, but healing,” Solas replied. “Sailing is more troublesome.”

Varric laughed, “No worries, Chuckles. We'll be on steady ground again soon enough, then your head will stop swimming.”

As long as the Herald welcomed his company, he highly doubted that.

 

———

 

It was the same as it was before, only with a different face.

Here, the Waking Sea was a tumult of motion — ebb, and swell, and crash. Endlessly restless, like the grief it had given her long ago.

_This is its honest face_ , she thought to herself.

Somewhere far across the darkening horizon was the little beach where the water was warmer, and calmer — where it was a liar, and a thief.

Tephra laid her hand over her chest, pressing through the layers of armor and clothing, to push the shell hidden there against her sternum. 

Hadn't she always told him? Little birds didn't belong in the sea.

_His bones are sleeping somewhere down there, beneath all those dark waters._

She had not been able to bury him, or to plant a tree for him. 

Perhaps that was why her grief was like a broken bone set wrong, and unable to heal.

She breathed in the salt air slow and deep, before sighing and pushing her grief back to where it slept in the dark corners of herself. When she turned back to the others, she was greeted by the sight of them working to make camp. 

Even though this particular trip was meant to be a respite from “Herald's work”, they'd still ended up sorting out problems for the locals, as well as their own people. Harding had sent them looking for missing soldiers, which had turned into a two day endeavor of clearing out bandit hideouts and tracking down their main camp. Now that it was sorted, their people could focus on locating the Wardens, which one of many new issues which the Inquisition had taken on as a priority.

She had the curious certainty, that for however long this all lasted ― being the Herald, fixing things, saving the world ― would involve a lot of traveling and exhaustion. 

Mostly exhaustion.

It didn't help that even after resting, even in a state of stillness, her heart beat out an erratic, discordant pace. It was a constant reminder of the magic that marked her ― that was slowly killing her.

There were so many things they needed for her to do, and she wasn't even sure she had the time left to see it all done.

They'd come to a small fishing town along the coves, which had more than welcomed them for the work they had done dealing with the bandits as well as various rifts. As it had no inn to speak of, they had no other choice but to make camp on the edge of the town near the beach, amongst the ruins of an ancient elven site. Most of the walls had fallen long ago, and the stones had been worn smooth by the ceaseless damp winds of the sea. It had been perhaps a waypoint, or a shrine, but it she could not say for certain. There was, however, a shrine to Fen'Harel — which she found fascinating. It meant that this place predated her people, as well as her people's fear of the Dread Wolf. She could not help but wonder if there was a time before, when her people did not shun the Wolf, but embraced him.

She had briefly entertained the idea of seeking Solas's opinion on the matter, but as both the subject of her people — as well as their gods — provoked his ire, she felt it best not to.

He was watching her, of course, as he so often was. As though he could divine her thoughts, and disapproved before she'd ever opened her mouth. 

_Always frowning, that one._

As if the world itself weighed on him. Or, perhaps, he simply didn't approve of her dallying at the water's edge while everyone else worked to set up camp.

She was too practiced to let her grief show, at least when she was aware of being observed. Still, she couldn't help but wonder why he seemed so troubled by the sight of her.

Perhaps he did anticipate that she would come ask him about the ruins — unsavory Dalish stuff, of course — and was simply preparing himself in advance to ward her off with some biting response.

She found it endlessly amusing — and oddly hurtful — that as far as Solas was concerned, the Dalish had it all wrong, on everything. That they weren't his people.

_Elfy_ , as Sera put it. Not enough for him, and at times too much for Sera. It didn't help that she had always felt an outsider to her own people, in a way, having been apart from them so long as a child. It made her feel as though there were no true place for her anywhere. 

It was a cold, isolating feeling.

She was surprised when he did not drop his gaze, as he often did when she caught him staring with that look he often had — as though she were some unsolvable riddle. 

The stubborn part of herself refused to break it first — to admit defeat, or to show that he flustered her so often. Yet her eyes were drawn to the fullness of his mouth, to the line that creased the center of his bottom lip. 

Her stomach clenched at the idle, intrusive notion of kissing him — how it might feel, or if he would be so inclined in the first place.

When she lifted her gaze, she found him regarding her with a tightened, complicated expression. Certainly disapproval, to be sure. Still, she had to admit, it would have been worth the trespass to see the surprise on his face, the shock of it. 

Perhaps it might banish his perpetual frown, at least for a time.

It was a foolish, useless notion, as she was certain that he harbored no interest in her. At best, he tolerated her, and her fumbling questions. And she wasn't even certain that she held any for him, as her life had become far too complicated to even entertain the idea of such things anymore.

Huffing, she broke the stare first and headed into the camp. 

The Chargers, as well as their leader, were accompanying them back to Haven. The mercenary company was small, but formidable. Their leader — the Iron Bull — insisted on drinks and dinner at the tavern in town after they'd made camp. She had not seen many Qunari in her travels, but he was arguably the biggest she'd ever seen, and certainly the most jovial. They'd already finished setting up their tents and had departed into town.

She wasn't certain it was the best decision — accepting them into the Inquisition — but then, she was bound to fuck up eventually. At least this mercenary crew made for amusing, and interesting traveling company. 

Cassandra was assisting Varric in assembling his tent, as he grumbled endlessly about the weather. Sera, however, was finished with hers. She was pointedly ignoring whatever Solas was saying to her as she chucked her belongings inside the tent.

As Tephra neared, she realized Solas was speaking to Sera in Elvhen. 

“—ar dirthan'as ir elgara, ma'sula e'var vhenan.”

The Elvhen words pricked at her ears, at once familiar and foreign. _I speak honestly and earnestly_. The rest was lost on her. She began to ask, but was cut off by Sera blowing a loud raspberry in Solas's general direction.

He looked positively affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse yourself,” Sera shot back. “Whatever you said and what I did, same difference to me.”

“I'd hoped, well—”

_He's flustered_ , she realized, with amusement. 

Their travels had gotten much more interesting with Sera added to the mix. 

“Our people can sometimes feel the rhythm of the language despite lacking the vocabulary,” Solas replied, still attempting to connect with Sera on common ground.

_Our people._

The words sat heavy and sour in the pit of her stomach, and she couldn't help the strange sense of hurt that washed over her by his careful distinction between himself and Sera. Not after he'd so thoroughly insisted on reaffirming that the Dalish — that she — were not his people, time and time again.

Sera, however, was wholly unimpressed. “Uh huh? Know what else is good? Words that mean things. Like these — _words_ ,” she mocked, derisively. 

“Fenedhis lasa,” Solas cursed. His exasperation was palpable.

Sera blew another raspberry in response.

“It is truly a shame, Sera, that you were denied an elven life,” Solas observed, with a sigh. “Even one as patchwork as the Dalish interpretation.”

The sense of hurt was quickly replaced with a sudden fury, burning in the pit of her core. 

“Yeah, well, you can take your shame and shove it where the sun don't shine,” Sera shot back over her shoulder, as she barreled past Tephra. 

She'd clearly had enough of Solas's prodding. 

Tephra turned from the scene, as she felt a flush creeping up her face. He'd gone out of his way to separate himself from the Dalish and the city elves — elves entirely — and especially her. He had been entirely specific about who weren't his people, and yet here he was asserting it with Sera. She could not keep up with his inconsistencies, and it angered her to feel even remotely envious of whatever kinship he was seeking with Sera, which he clearly did not seem to see in her.

It was a stupid, useless feeling, and she had no time for it.

The spurned apostate was suddenly at her side. 

If he meant to console himself with her attention now that Sera had rebuffed him, she was decidedly uninterested. 

“Perhaps—”

“No,” she replied, in a flat tone.

With that, she left him there as she followed after Sera.

Varric's laugh followed her as she exited the camp, “You sure know how to make the ladies feel special, Chuckles.”

The woods were sparse between the beach and the town, and her anger faded quickly as she moved further from the camp.

There was something intrinsically, intensely lonely about Solas, but it was a prison of his own making. She could not fault him for being so particular about whose company he kept, but he was unfortunately terrible at connecting with the people he did seek out. He often framed his conversations with probing questions and accusatory observations on race and culture, which naturally made most people defensive, or combative. It took a good deal of patience to endure it, which Sera certainly did not have.

Tephra caught up to her just outside the town. 

“Don't mind him, he's like that with everyone,” she assured. 

Sera grimaced, “Yeah, well, his head's crammed up a thousand years ago. His problem, not mine, that he's all, “Elf this, elf that.” Blah, blah, blah, shove it up yer arse.”

“Well, you _are_ an elf,” Tephra teased. “In case the ears didn't give it away.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not all elfy about it!” she huffed. “At least you're not too elfy. I mean, you are, but you don't rub it in my face like Solas does. I think his balls shrivel up every time he looks at me.”

They both laugh at that, and she was grateful for the break in tension. She had some small doubts when she first recruited Sera, but her ridiculous sense of humor and her worldview had all but banished it.

“I needed someone like you around,” Tephra mused. 

Sera gave a wary frown, as though she suspected it were an insult, “What do you mean, like me?”

“Like _you_ ,” she grinned. “Someone who'll take the piss out of everything.”

Sera gave a sharp giggle, “Yeah, I'm good at that. Besides, elfy or not don't matter. You glow. You fix things. You jump into fires and save babies, yeah? That's my kind of people. Piss off about ears, it's what you do that matters.”

 

———

 

Despite her earlier rebuff, Solas sought her out in the tavern almost immediately as he arrived. As the others were pushing tables together and collecting chairs, he caught her idling by herself with a bottle of mead as she inspected a large painting that had been hung near the fireplace. It was a grim depiction of the burning of Andraste, which did little to lift her mood as she suspected a similar fate likely lay ahead of her. Being that she was labelled a heretic, and all of that.

He said nothing as he idled at her side and waited for either her acknowledgement, or to be rebuffed again. His hesitance to speak freely, as he had before, elicited a sharp stab of guilt.

She had perhaps been a bit rude, rebuffing him without so much as clarification as to why. Still, she pridefully held her silence for a time as she nursed the bottle of mead, before remarking, “She must not have been all that favored by their Maker, if he did not save her from such a fate.”

“Even gods can make mistakes,” Solas remarked. 

He was silent for a time at her side, with his hands locked behind his back. She had come to know it as a defensive posture for him, when he held himself distant and apart from others. 

Her guilt deepened, as she realized that her rebuff had wounded him more than she'd realized it would. If anything, she had only meant to jab at his sense of pride — not whatever this was. 

For all his ire of the Dalish, he had opened himself up to her in a way he had not with the others — in sharing his opinions, and knowledge, and stories. And she knew all too well how difficult it could be to allow oneself to be vulnerable — to fear that sort of connection, or intimacy, as it opened oneself to the possibility of its loss. And she knew that he had few, if any, close companions in the waking world.

_You're supposed to fix things, Herald, not break them,_ she chided herself. 

_So fix it._

“You don't believe in the gods,” she reminded.

“No, but something inspired the stories,” he replied. His stance loosened, if only marginally, as his tension eased. “It is in our nature to make sense of our history through stories, which often become steeped in myth and metaphor. There are precious few, if any, left who remember the truth of things.”

“Spirits?”

“Yes, and—” Solas lapsed into a thoughtful silence, but the sudden bob of his throat as he swallowed caught her gaze.

There it was again — his habit of holding back, of omitting. 

Whatever it was that he held back, that he needed to keep to himself, she had pushed him perilously close to saying. What beyond the spirits, would live long enough to remember such history? And what did it matter to Solas if they discussed it?

“The ones who came before — the immortals,” Tephra said, suddenly, as the realization hit her. It made her heart skip a beat at the thought of it. He tensed when she turned to him, and asked, “Do you think there are any still alive?”

He fixed her with a measured look, before he replied, “I think it is perhaps possible, yes.”

She held his gaze, as the palpable tension weighed on her. 

Not _his_ people.

Then who were?

She studied the lines of his face with a sudden suspicion. There was something strangely naked in his expression, despite being entirely inscrutable. 

Could he—

_No._

It was an absurd notion. 

He was mortal, was he not? She'd seen him on the brink of death, with nothing but the grip of her hand keeping him tethered to life. Surely an immortal would not be so weak as they were. 

Still, the suspicion and tension gnawed at her. Her eyelids fluttered as she turned back to the painting, and mused, “How small we must seem to them.”

After a moment, he asked, “Where did you learn to doubt the past, to question history? Surely not from your clan.”

“Surely not,” she echoed in a mocking tone. Her jaw tensed, as she swallowed the anger he provoked so easily in her. After a moment, she said, “I'm curious, and I ask questions. Sometimes, I meet people who share things that change my perspective.”

“Not quite an answer,” Solas remarked, with a small smile.

She fought her own, as she said, “Says the guy whose content to attribute everything he knows to “I saw it in the Fade”.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, with an awkward laugh. After a moment, he asked, “What did you do, before this? Back home with your clan. You were a ranger, were you not? A scout of some sort?”

Tephra frowned, “Why do you ask?”

“Simple curiosity,” Solas replied. He turned his scrutiny from the painting and back to her, as he continued, “You are clearly trained in the ways of hunting and stealth, and make for a formidable defender of your clan. Yet you also have knowledge of things those of your position generally do not have.”

He had that look again — seeing, and not seeing. As though she were a puzzle he hadn't worked out yet. She had hoped they were past this. “Does it matter, what I was? Clearly, I cannot go back to it,” she said, in a clipped tone. “It seems I belong to everyone but myself now, as everyone sees fit to extract every piece they can, including my history. Forgive me if I try to hold onto what small parts that are still mine to keep.”

His eyebrows knitted together in concern, “Ir abelas, I simply wished—”

“I'm not a mystery, Solas. I'm just myself.”

His frown deepened, as he asserted, “On that, we disagree. You once asked that I see you as more than just the mark on your hand, did you not? You have had my full attention, Herald, and you are different from any of your kind that I've met. Forgive me if my questions get out of hand, I am simply interested in what has made you so different.” 

Tephra gave a mirthless laugh, “I'm truly not all that different from my kin, I assure you. The only difference — that which you find so appealing — is that I question it all so often. For that, most of my clan think I'm a bit touched in the head. The mad foundling who never shuts up about why this or why that. But the truth is, we all do, because all we have left of our history and our culture is fragments, and questions.”

Solas said nothing, as his jaw tensed and her considered his words. “Yet, still—”

“I did not grow up with my kin,” she interjected sharply, and a bit too loudly.

Her face flushed as she cast a glance at the others, who'd begun dinner without them. None had seemed to have heard her outburst, or if they had, they were discreetly ignoring it for her sake.

She was acutely aware of the fact that he would never let it drop until he figured it out. 

_Pissing hell._

Tephra stopped one of the waitresses passing by, and plucked two more bottles of mead from the woman's armful. The waitress bowed her head briefly, before rushing back off to deliver drinks to her companions. Shifting the bottles into one arm, she pushed at Solas with the other. 

He tensed beneath her touch, yet he allowed her to herd him back further from the others, to the far corner near a fireplace. She handed him one of the bottles, which he accepted without protest.

It would have been easier if he'd managed to crack the cipher, then he could have sated his ridiculous fixation with her history without needing her to say it. Yet, it continued to elude him. That, at least, gave her some satisfaction and pride — that the great apostate who derided the Dalish so often could not crack a Dalish man's code.

Still, she could not bear to tell him everything. There was too much, and she had never spoken her grief to anyone, not even her kin. She popped the cork of her mead, and took a long drink as she fixed her gaze on the fireplace and kept it there.

He waited with patience, as she gathered her courage.

With the sweet burn of the mead lingering in her throat, she said, “I was born to them — to clan Lavellan — and I lived with them for a time with my family. Circumstance, which I do not care to delve into, separated me from them as a child. I had neither kin, nor family, for a good portion of my life. All I had were a handful of books — bits of history, of our culture, of the world — and myself. Perhaps that has had some hand in who I am, but I _am Dalish_. It was the only thing I had left to hold onto for all that time, was that I belonged somewhere. That someone might come looking for me. And they did. They took me home.”

His silence prompted her to meet his gaze, she found that he was looking at her with a unsettlingly soft expression. As though somehow, despite how vague she left the details, he _knew_. 

As if he could see right through her.

“Whatever the nature of your circumstances, it has afforded you a purity of mind not indoctrinated by Dalish superstition,” Solas said, gently. “For that, you are unlike any other—”

“Telling me that I'm not like other Dalish you've met isn't a compliment, Solas,” she replied, rather sharply. She felt perilously exposed and vulnerable, as she continued, “You're implying that my good qualities are an anomaly based on an anomalous childhood, and that I am otherwise flawed and possibly awful.”

“I didn't — I had not meant—” Solas stopped himself short, flustered. He took a moment to take a generous drink from his mead. “You are, of course, entirely right. Forgive me. I am not often thrown by such casual wisdom. You wield it as gracefully as the bow you carry.”

Now it was her turn to be flustered. 

Was he complimenting her? Or, possibly—

A ridiculous notion.

“Are you suggesting that I'm graceful?” she asked, carefully, as though she expected a trap.

There was an odd, if subdued warmth in his face, as he firmly replied, “No, I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate.”

She felt her face flush, as she frowned and averted her gaze back to the fireplace.

Well, _that_ was something. What exactly, though, eluded her. 

From the other side of the tavern, Varric hollered, “If you two are done colluding in the corner, the food's ready!”

 

———

 

“Come on, Herald, at least give us his name. We all fessed up our firsts,” Varric cajoled. He shot an amused glance at Cassandra, “Well, except the Seeker here, but good luck prying that one loose.”

Cassandra merely gave a snort of disgust.

“This whole modesty thing is drawing out all of our anticipation marvelously, but do put us out of our misery sometime this century,” Dorian added, with a laugh.

Tephra refused to meet anyone's eyes, as she attempted to conceal her amusement. She huffed in mock exasperation, before taking a quick swig of mead. 

“Her name was Ebba,” she admitted, with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

Sera shot up from her chair with a hoot, punching at the air, as the others laughed. “Our Herald's a lady lover!”

“I'm—” Her words stalled in her throat, as she pointedly avoided the amused scrutiny of her companions. She cleared her throat, and fought the smile burning across her mouth, “I'm not strictly an anything lover, really. Gender doesn't matter much to me, I suppose.”

Sera gave a skeptical snort, “What about _elfyness?_ ”

“Uh—”

Varric cut her off with a sudden laugh, “Wait, wait — even better! If we're gonna discuss elfyness, how does Chuckles here rank on the elvhen attractiveness scale?”

There was more laughter, and her ears burned as she shot the dwarf a dark look of annoyance. She avoided looking at Solas as she turned to gesture at Sera, “Well, she's an elf, too. Have her judge him.”

“Pfft, not my deal, Lady Herald,” Sera shot back, cheekily. “Not my deal, Lady Herald. _You're_ my deal, not him. _Phwoar_.”

Tephra leapt at the change of subject, in a vain attempt to steer the conversation another way, “Oh?”

Sera laughed, “You're kidding, right? Decent with a bow, nice arse, legs up to here—”

Tephra covered her face with her hands and laughed, as Sera gestured at her own chest. 

“Come on, Snowflake. Quit dodging the subject. Let's hear it!”

She attempted to kick Varric's boots under the table, but he avoided her easily by lifting his legs out of her reach as he crowed with laughter.

As she straightened in her chair, she was acutely aware of her own inebriation.

Solas was looking at her with subdued amusement, and flushed from the mead. He was damnably better at holding his alcohol, though, which made her regret drinking with all of her ridiculous companions. 

Tephra cleared her throat, and fought the urge to avert her gaze, “Well—”

There was a chorus of snickers.

Tephra took a slow drink from her mead, and bought herself a moment to regard him. Her gaze swept over him — the relaxed slouch of his posture, the way he cradled his drink between slender hands, the lines of his shoulders and neck, then up to meet his amused smile.

_Damn them all the Void._

“He's, uh—”

Varric snorted, and doubled over to press his laughing face against the table. 

He _was_ handsome, in his own striking way. Why was it so hard admit that? 

_Because he's enjoying this far too much, damn him._

“He's rather tall, for — for an elf,” she finally managed, to the endless amusement of her companions. 

“I'm surrounded by children,” Tephra groaned. 

When she glanced back at Solas, she found him still watching her with amusement. He held his mead aloft, as it idled at his mouth, pressing against his bottom lip. 

It seemed entirely, infuriatingly purposeful in how it draw her gaze. 

Damn him — his ridiculous face — to the Void.

She rose from her chair, and immediately shifted her attention to the Chargers. They were engaged in various rounds of competitive arm wrestling matches with each other, as well as other patrons of the tavern. 

If anything, it was a perfect distraction to avoid furthering this ridiculous conversation. 

As the qunari slammed down Krem's arm, she announced, “Alright, it's the Herald's turn.”

The sound of disbelief and laughter filled the tavern around her, but she ignored it as she downed the last of her drink. She slammed to bottle down, and stalked around the table.

Krem vacated the seat opposite of the Iron Bull, and when she sat and regarded the massive qunari sitting across from her, it occurred to her that this was probably not her best idea. 

He grinned with smug amusement and positioned his massive arm on the table, hand ready to clasp hers. When she placed her hand in his, she struggled just to span the width of his palm. There was probably more weight in his arm than her entire body.

Most certainly _not_ the best idea she'd have — likely ever. Still, she was too stubborn to back out now.

“Three, two, one — go!”

The qunari amused himself by giving her a shot at attempting to win, and simply kept keeping locked into place as she pushed. 

It was like trying to move a stone wall. 

She struggled in vain with one arm, until fury and stubbornness boiled in her gut and propelled her up onto the table. The tavern erupted into laughter as she grappled with the Bull's arm, her whole body straining to move him even an inch. He gave a deep, rumbling laugh before he playfully pinned her down on the table with one hand, knocking over empty cups and bottles in the process. She struggled to free herself, but it was no use against his immense strength.

“Another crushing defeat! Truly, I am the mightiest specimen here tonight,” the Bull declared loudly, before he let go of her.

Tephra rolled off the table in a flurry of curses and threats. 

“You are a fierce little thing, though,” the qunari laughed. 

Cassandra hauled her up from the floor, as she admonished the Bull, “You could have wounded her!”

“The only thing I wounded was her pride,” the Bull quipped.

Tephra disentangled herself from her companion's well-meaning assistance and stalked to the far corner of the tavern, where a small table sat unoccupied. She was flushed, flustered, and out of breath. It suddenly felt far too warm in the tavern, and her head was swimming a bit. She needed a moment, and—

She nicked another bottle of mead from a passing waitress, before plopping down into a chair by herself. Another unwise idea, as she was already thoroughly drunk, but she found that she cared little for caution at the moment. She'd only just popped the cork off of the bottle, when Solas sat down opposite of her. 

He settled into a comfortable slouch, as he set down his own mead, and regarded her with an amused smile. 

She felt an odd bubble of mirth tickle in her chest, as she thought, _Why not?_

Tephra leaned forward and put her arm in position — a open invitation.

Surely, she could beat the apostate. 

When he straightened and leaned forward, she thought for a moment that he meant to accept the challenge. 

Instead, he took her by the wrist and gently brought her hand closer so that he could inspect her palm. Solas ran a fingertip along the lines of her palm, in an almost languid manner, and his careful prodding prompted the mark to glimmer in response.

It was curious to her that he could do that at all — as if he could summon the magic right out of her. No one else could, that she knew of. She'd even let Dorian inspect her hand with a few probing spells, and even he could not summon it forth. 

“Has it been bothering you?”

“Not particularly,” she mused. “Though without your healing spells, it seems to have gotten a bit cranky in your absence.”

It was a jest, and yet he looked contrite as he frowned at the magic glimmering in her skin, as if it were somehow his fault. 

She had the sudden, striking urge to reassure him. 

“It is a bearable annoyance, nothing more.” Tephra laid her free hand over his, and assured, “You're welcome to ease it, if that pleases you.”

Solas blinked rapidly, and the muscles in his jaw worked silently as he avoided her gaze.

It was pleasantly amusing to have flustered him with such a casual touch, and a simple offering. She briefly recalled the night in the Crossroads, when she'd administered medicine to his wounds, and how tense he'd been beneath her touch. 

It had been the beginning of an odd dance between them — this seeking and giving of balms to the other's wounds.

Solas laid his palm against hers. She could feel the erratic beat of his pulse, where her fingers laid against the underside of his wrist.

Somewhere along the way, his touch had become distracting, and touching him had become—

_Complicated._

There was a shimmer of blue, and a brief _tugging_ sensation, and then nothing as the mark calmed and quieted in her bones. She let out a slow breath; she had gotten so used to its residual ache, that its sudden absence startled her. 

He did not release her immediately, and instead Solas brushed his thumb at her wrist where the skin was marked darker by the memory of fire. “It is a shame I could not wholly prevent the scarring,” he mused.

The marks were still sensitive to the touch, even after all this time. She could not help the shudder which rippled through her, which certainly did not escape his notice. 

She couldn't remember the last time she was flustered by something so small as someone else's touch, and she stubbornly chalked it up to the sensitivity of her scarred skin. 

Tephra cleared her throat, as she pulled herself free of his grasp. She reclaimed her mead and slouched back in her chair.

She was, perhaps, a bit too drunk. 

Her pulse was pounding too loudly in her ears, and she wasn't entirely sure where her sense of caution had gotten off to, as she eyed him far too openly.

_Oh, boy._

 

———

 

The tension which had settled between them was unbearably palpable, and the way her eyes had lingered at his mouth, as though she considered—

_No._

It was too dangerous to consider, and too prideful of him to assume whatever she might feel in regards to him. For all that she freely declared of her opinions, her thoughts, she had never once given any inclination to _that_ — to desiring him. 

And, yet he found himself staring at where her fingers idled at the corner of her mouth, as she sat slouched deep in her chair and regarding him with a gaze he couldn't begin to interpret. 

He found himself absurdly envious of her fingertips, treading territory he didn't even dare dream of exploring.

Solas averted his gaze, and cleared his throat as he straightened, “The mark should not bother you, for a time.”

“You're not like any other elf I've ever met, Solas,” she mused. Briefly, she bit at her pinkie nail, before sitting forward to fold her arms on the table. Her face was flushed from the alcohol, and her guard was certainly lowered, but her eyes were bright and sharp.

“As are you,” he replied, in a careful, measured tone. 

It was too easy to provoke her, or for her to provoke him, and he did not wish to break this pleasant gravity which had begun to build between them. 

It was perilous, and against his better judgement, to continue.

If he were a wise man, he would have left it at that — a simple compliment — and he would have risen and bid her goodnight. 

“It has been... refreshing,” he continued, heedless of his own foolishness. “I had not thought I would find another in this world who reflected the spirit and true nature of what our people once was. You have surprised me, in that.”

“Us? Now that's a high compliment, coming from you,” she teased. “And what have I done to earn such praise?”

His pulse pounded in his ears, as he replied, “For having simply been yourself.”

The mead had dulled his senses, so when she bounded up to her feet, the movement was quicker than his eyes could register. He did not have time to brace himself as she leaned over the table and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his brow.

“Nira!” she exclaimed, as she withdrew. “I have finally met the impossibly high standards of the apostate,” she teased, as she settled back in her seat.

The skin burned at his temple where it had been touched by her mouth. For a moment, he could not center his thoughts nor calm his pulse.

The Herald downed the last of her mead, before declaring, “I should sleep.”

“Yes, I rather think so,” he agreed, despite desiring the opposite. 

Time always moved far too quickly when she was with him, and there was never enough of it that she could give him.

Tephra swayed as she stood, and caught herself on his shoulder. She laughed to herself, before bidding him goodnight.

As inebriated as she was, it was not a good idea to let her wander back to camp by herself. Still, he would not wound her pride by insisting on escorting her, so he simply followed her a staggered pace.

The Seeker caught his eye as he passed, and gave him a terse nod — as though she knew he intended to see her safe back to camp, and approved.

The town was not very large, so even at her unhurried pace it did not take long to reach the outskirts. He kept a quiet distance, following her out of the town. Despite the sway in her movements, she was still light on her feet, and far more graceful than any mortal had a right to be.

The camp was silent, and empty, as she was the first to retire for the night. He was surprised to see her pass her own tent, as Tephra gravitated to the far end of the ruins, to where a statue of the Dread Wolf sat. Alert and wary, teeth bared with the promise of threat against his enemies. 

He had been anxious that she would ask him about the ruins, but she had thankfully not. It had once been a waypoint to guide escaped slaves to his people, to freedom. He could have spun a story, if she had asked, but he found himself increasingly reluctant to mislead her. It was hard enough simply holding back certain truths — outright lying was beyond him, now. 

Solas moved to lean against a tree, as he watched her inspect the statue. As much as he disliked deification and the shrines which had been erected in his name — or the Dalish's poisonous mythology — her lack of fear as she drew closer to the statue was dizzying. 

He briefly recalled her confession that she'd once prayed to Fen'Harel; what had she desired so greatly that she had not feared praying to the so-called Great Betrayer of her people?

The statue was finely crafted, and had stood the test of time. It had been carved to be sitting on its haunches, with its gaze directed down towards those who would bring it offerings and prayer. He watched with curiosity as she climbed up onto the foundation, so that she could reach up to touch its face, which loomed just above her own. Her hands smoothed up along its neck and then down the head of the statue, with awe — as though she were touching a real creature. Her hands hesitated at the open mouth, where the teeth were carved to brutal precision. 

When she ran her fingers along the sharp points, Solas felt a shiver run through him at the sight of it. It spurred him to playfully call out, “Do be careful, Herald. I hear that he bites.”

Tephra gave a start and stumbled back off the statue, cursing as she landed on in a heap in the grass.

He laughed despite himself, “Apologies, I could not resist.”

From where she sat, Tephra snatched up a small stone and launched it in his general direction. “You scared me half to death, you ass!”

Solas ducked to avoid being hit, still laughing. When he straightened, she was storming off out to the beach, to sit and watch the water. He followed after, feeling contrite as he sat beside her in the sand.

“Truly, I did not mean to startle you,” he assured, warm with amusement and mead. 

“You're still an ass,” she insisted.

“Yes, of course,” he laughed. 

The moon was high over the sea, full and bright. The dark waters shimmered silver where the light caught it, sending bright arcs dancing over the waves. 

He said nothing as she lapsed into silence, for a time, simply content to keep her company.

Tephra drew her knees up to her chest, as she locked her arms around them, and said, “I was thinking, earlier, of all the ways a world can end without really ending.”

He kept his silence, as he let her unburden herself however she meant to. He would not ask, nor probe — not with this. It was why he had not approached her earlier, when she'd spent her time staring out across the sea. In that moment, she had been neither the Herald, nor the unfortunate bearer of his Anchor, only the little girl who had tried so desperately to save her brother.

That grief was hers alone, until she decided to share it with him — if ever.

“People die every day and the world keeps turning. The sun still comes up the next day, like nothing happened,” she mused. Her eyes were impossibly dark despite the moonlight, and impossibly sad. “But a person dies, and the world ends for the ones that loved them.”

Finally, she turned her eyes from the sea to meet his gaze, as she asked, “What am I saving, if everything just dies in the end?”

It was a knife to his heart. 

What comfort could he give her, when his path took him so far from what she desired? When what she needed to do was merely a stepping stone, and not the end result? He could not confess that he needed her to stabilize this world, simply to buy him time to restore his strength — so that he could unmake it.

“Hope,” he replied in a hollow, brittle tone. “For a chance to make things... better.”

“I don't know how I'm supposed to do this, Solas,” she confessed, her voice nearly lost in the roar of the waves. “It's all too much.”

He thought of her, screaming and sobbing into the sand, and how he'd tried to console her there in the memory. And then after, when he'd awakened, how she clasped his arm.

Solas shifted to reach across the short distance between them, and laid his hand on her arm. He held her gaze, as he said, “You can only try your best, Tephra, and hope that it will be enough. Whatever comes, I promise that I will be with you, until the end.”

Wherever that path took them in the end, he could promise her that much.

Tephra stared at his hand where it laid on her arm for a long moment, before looking at him with a soft expression. She laid her hand over his, and clasped it. “Can you help me stand?”

He stood, and drew her up with him. She swayed, and leaned into him to steady herself. Amused, he asked, “Do you need assistance back to your tent?”

Tephra laughed, “It's that, or I'll be spending the night face down in the sand.”

“We certainly cannot have that,” he chuckled. 

Her arm looped around his back, and she clutched at his shoulder for steadiness. He, in turn, put an arm around her waist to hold her steady as they walked. 

He could not account for the sudden, erratic pace of his heart.

As they made the slow trek back into camp, she said, “I'm sorry I was rude to you earlier.” Her voice was far too close to his ear, nearly intimate in proximity. Her breath tickled warmly against his skin, as she confessed, “The sea makes me sad, and far too angry.”

_I know_ , he wanted to say, but didn't.

In truth, her sudden coldness earlier in the day had caught him by surprise. He had suspected that he'd provoked her while assessing Sera, probing for some seed of familiarity in the elf for her own true nature. Appealing to commonality had prodded a sore spot in Tephra, as he'd so often angered and pushed her on the subject of her own people in the past. It had simply been bad timing that she'd overheard him when her emotions were rubbed raw, after having stood staring out at the Waking Sea for so long while nursing her grief alone.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he assured.

Solas helped the Herald into the tent that belonged to her, which was spacious enough that he could direct her to her sleeping roll without tripping over her gear. He'd only just released his hold on her, when she began to strip off the layers of her traveling clothes. She was halfway through stripping off her top when he turned on his heel. 

He hadn't been quick enough to avoid seeing the naked expanse of her back — the movements of her toned shoulders and the sharp lines of her scapula, or the acute tapering of her waist. 

It was burned indelibly into his memory.

His hands flexed anxiously, as he quickly clasped them behind his back. 

Her laugh sounded behind him, as she said, “I didn't peg you as particularly modest, Solas.”

“It is not for the benefit of my modesty, Herald,” he replied, unable to keep the flustered tremor from his tone. 

Tephra gave a throaty chuckle, before declaring, “Alright, I'm decent.”

Solas turned to find that she'd simply changed into a light sleeping shift, and had not bothered to remove her traveling pants, nor her boots. She was sitting cross-legged on her sleeping roll, still flush with alcohol, and watching him with amusement.

His stomach clenched when Tephra held out her hand to him, as if to beckon him to bed with her. 

Surely, she did not mean—

“It hurts,” she said, meaning the mark in her hand. 

An obvious lie, to keep what she truly meant unsaid. It would hurt nothing to cast the spell again, and he could not bear to refuse such an open, intimate offering.

He swallowed dryly, as he moved to sit on his knees before her. 

It was perilously foolish of him to continually allow himself to get this close with her. It could only bring trouble, and complication. Yet, when she beckoned him like this — as she permitted him this precious bit of trust — he was helpless to turn her away. Everything about her drew him out, and the potential danger of it — the consequences — were becoming increasingly irrelevant in the wake of what she evoked in him. 

She had given life to a world that had seemed dead to him, and he had not felt this alive in a very long time.

Solas cupped her elbow and drew her arm out flat, bracing it atop his own. 

The contact was dizzying. 

He studied the slender length of her arm, as though it still held secrets from him, but he knew every mark by now. Every freckle and scar. 

Solas ran his fingertips from the crux of her elbow, following the path of her veins to the pulse point in her wrist. He felt it jump beneath his touch, like confirmation. 

“It should not be hurting you so soon,” he mused, as he played along with her farce. “Perhaps I was inattentive with my spell.”

His fingers lingered there, at the juncture of her wrist, where the blue lines of her veins bundled together like latticework. They were pathways that were becoming increasingly familiar; delicate lines that thrummed beneath his touch. 

She hummed thoughtfully in response, content to let him examine her.

When Solas pressed his index finger to the middle of her palm, the mark flared and danced in response. 

Tephra turned her hand, and she pressed her palm to his. An exploratory gesture, as the mark glimmered between the connection of their skin. Her fingers settled between his, loosely.

Alarm and trepidation and excitement all warred between his ribs, as his heart beat furiously in his chest.

“What does it feel like to you?” After a moment, she clarified, “The mark."

His thoughts clamored and stuttered, as his attention was entirely drawn to the warmth of her skin against his. _Ballast_ , he thought. And—

The possibility of knowing — all of her thoughts, her dreams, her history, all of _her_ — and being known. Of being able to tell her everything.

“Old magic,” he replied, truthfully. “From a time before this time.”

Tephra withdrew her hand; it was a languid movement, meant to ignite the nerves in his palm, and too purposeful to be anything but deliberate on her part. She gave an amused huff, as she stretched out on her sleeping roll, “If you insist.”

His hand fisted at his side as he rose. “Rest well, Herald.”

“Mhm,” she hummed, as she settled into a loose curl on her side.

When he stepped outside the tent, Solas closed his eyes and let out a slow, trembling breath. 

He was a fool to have ever thought that he could have avoided this. That he could have avoided caring, that he could have avoided—

Solas retreated to his own tent, with the knowledge that his sleep would be anything but restful. He stripped off his jerkin, before settling down onto his sleeping roll. He laid a trembling hand over his eyes, and sighed.

She was an abyss, in which he'd just thrown himself willingly. 

His hand shifted, and he pressed his fingertips where she'd kissed him. 

What would she have done, if he had allowed himself to kiss her back? Would she have let him lay his hand against the nape of her neck, and draw her back to him? Would she have let his mouth catch hers first, or would she have thrown herself into it, the way she threw herself head first into danger at every turn?

Solas gave a irritated huff at his own foolishness; this was a masochistic exercise in futility.

He could not keep her, even if she had wanted him to.

He slept fitfully, and sought nothing else in the Fade that night but the staggered seconds where her skin had idled against his, and the moment she had kissed his temple. The softness of her mouth was a pleasure he'd never anticipated knowing, and now it would torment him forever in the dreaming. He could not banish it from his memory, even if he wanted to.

It was not like him to be so indulgent in the Fade, not like this, yet when she moved to kiss him once again at his temple, Solas manipulated the ambient energies around him to shift, and met her mouth with his own. 

It was hollow. It could never be more than a pale imitation, not without true memory, not unless he sought her in the dreaming, not unless he dared to—

Solas woke with a start, heart racing and fevered, and with the sudden knowledge that it was entirely possible to miss what he'd never had. 

There was no way to avoid the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun chapter. I had to write something nice before all the shit happens. Buckle up, kids. The next handful of chapters are gonna get real. 
> 
> Also, if you have any doubts to my commitment to this story, imagine for a moment, the image of your dear writer — currently with no internet at home, stubbornly hobbling down the street on crutches with a broken ankle and a laptop in her backpack to go leech wifi from Pizza Hut, so that she can post this chapter. 
> 
> That's love, y'all. And if you're loving this story, let me know!
> 
> Specific Elven used and credited to the work of FenxShiral:  
> Nira — to celebrate, to party, to be joyful, to congratulate


	14. We Do Terrible Things For The Ones We Love, Pt.I

I think my body is afraid of being a body again.  
It was nothing for the longest time.  
_—Meggie Royer_

A word and everything is saved.  
A word and all is lost.  
_—André Breton_

 

A staging area had been covertly set up in the forest outside of Redcliffe, a mile from any of the magical wards which would have betrayed their advance to the magister. The pines towered overhead, staggering in their height, which effectively kept their forces from being spotted from afar. 

The Commander had not been pleased with her decision to meet with Alexius, nor Leliana's plan to infiltrate through the secret tunnels beneath the castle, but she found she had little patience for it. Val Royeaux had proved the futility of approaching the templars, as the Lord Seeker had barely acknowledged her, and heartily refused in aiding with the Breach. The templars had followed him out of the city, no better than sheep. Approaching them again would have been an exercise in futility. 

Though facing a magister who could manipulate time itself was not a particularly promising option, either. 

The tension had spurred her to step away, to take a breath, to seek a moment of peace before the inevitable conflict which laid ahead of her.

_Get the mages, close the Breach — then it's done. Then you can go home._

It had been the only thing keeping her going — the thought that it would be over eventually, once she'd done what was needed of her. But what was needed had become a complicated, many-headed beast. Each time she dealt with one thing, two more cropped up. If she closed the Breach, would that truly be the end of it?

Tephra had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't be.

Suddenly at her side, Solas advised, “They're prepared to begin.”

He left without a further word.

Her companions idled at the makeshift war table, going over diagrams of Redcliffe castle and the tunnels running beneath it. Solas continued to pointedly avoid her gaze as he rejoined them.

The tension had not eased since they departed the Storm Coast, and Solas had largely kept to himself in the time that followed. He was distant with her, and watched her with a wariness she hadn't seen before. Tephra could hardly blame him, though; she'd had far too much mead that night in the tavern, and for it, most certainly made an ass of herself.

What in the Void had spurred her to be so _provocative_ with him? It was clear that she'd crossed a line with him — the kiss, particularly. What had possessed her to do such a thing? 

Especially to Solas, who kept himself so carefully apart from those around him. 

He had clearly shown before that he did not care much for being touched, from the way his posture so often tensed at her approach, or if he even suspected that he might be touched — accidentally, or not. Either it was a natural aversion, or perhaps she simply made him uncomfortable.

Even now, after all this time after having rejoined society, certain social cues tended to escape her. 

Perhaps in time her embarrassment would subside, as well as his, so that either of them could look each other in the eye as comrades, and not whatever _this_ was. 

She stepped back to the war table, and into the middle of Varric's grumbling rant of their current situation.

“—hole in the sky, mages and templars in a pissing contest all over Thedas, and now some magister's playing with time magic. Couldn't get any worse, could it?”

Vivian gave a musical laugh as she chided him, “Do try and not tempt the fates, dear. We've already plenty to deal with today.”

“Yes, if history is anything to go by, it most certainly _can_ get worse,” Dorian added, with a laugh.

Tephra looked over the diagrams again, as she felt the weight of leadership settle over her once more. 

There had never been an official discussion on leadership, or what precisely her role was beyond being the “hand-glowy rift-closer” — as Sera so succinctly put it — yet, here they were all the same. Looking to her for guidance, and awaiting her command.

She looked to Leliana, and asked, “Is your team prepared to begin?”

The spymaster stood with her hands locked behind her back, “By your leave, Herald.”

The Commander shifted, as he advised, “We still have time to retreat, and consider the templars. The mages have made their choice. I still do not see the point of putting Lavellan at risk.”

Leliana bristled, “They're desperate. They're trying to protect themselves, and their loved ones. Can you blame them for it?”

“If it means putting Lavellan in a position to be killed for it, I absolutely can,” Cullen countered, in a heated tone. “Are the mages worth risking our only chance of closing the Breach?”

Tephra's hands fisted on the table, knuckles white with frustration.

She was more than tired of their bickering, and inability to compromise.

Leliana gave an incredulous laugh, “So we should just condemn them to be used as tools in whatever the magister plans? To be manipulated by a foreign power, and used against us?”

“I did not—”

“ _Enough._ ”

The Seeker's sharp voice cut through their argument more effectively than any blade. 

Cassandra turned her attention from the bickering advisors and back to her, “Leliana has briefed her agents, and they are ready to begin when you are. Those of us accompanying you inside also stand ready. We await your word, Herald.”

Tephra glanced around the table, before giving a small nod, “Then let's begin.”

“You will be right in the middle of it all, Herald,” the Commander intoned. “You can still back out.”

“I've been in danger since this began. That hasn't changed, and it likely never will,” she replied, in a flat tone. “Dorian will disrupt the wards for us to pass through undetected. The Commander's forces, the Chargers, and Madame de Fer will remain just outside of them to avoid detection. If things go south, the scouts will signal from their position.”

“We will not be able to take the castle, if you fall,” Cullen reminded.

_Persistent, isn't he?_

She understood the risk which lay ahead of her. Retreat would have been easier, but leaving Alexius to toy with time itself was not an option. 

“No, but you can evacuate the town,” Tephra mused. “Take those who will listen to reason to the safety of Haven.”

“No where will be safe if—”

Tephra fixed him with a sharp look, “I don't mean to die today, Commander.”

“Few ever do,” Solas interjected, in a clipped tone. “How do you mean to defy your own mortality?”

_Now I have his attention, of course,_ Tephra mused, with morbid amusement. Her marked hand flexed idly, gripping at the sudden surge of magic flaring in her palm. 

She was starting to think it was directly tied to her sense of annoyance — specifically when it was aroused by him.

Tephra gave him a crooked grin, and quipped, “Watch me.”

The muscles of his jaw worked silently, as though he were suppressing either a biting rebuttal, or perhaps a smile. Whichever he meant, he kept it to himself.

She lifted her bow from where she'd left it on the table and shouldered it, “If there's nothing else, then we're done here. Let's not keep Alexius waiting.”

As her companions departed, she caught Solas by the sleeve. Tephra was careful to not make contact with his skin, and released him as soon as Solas turned back to her.

“Was there something else, Herald?”

His tone was formal, and tightly clipped — distanced. 

She ignored the knot in her stomach, and said, “I don't know what's going to happen in there, but I wanted to apologize, in case anything does.”

“You have not wronged me in any way I'm aware of,” he replied, simply.

There was something oddly pressing and urgent — a bad feeling settling into her gut. 

Something about this was all wrong — the magister, the time magic, the taking of the mages. It made things feel oddly pressing and urgent, as though she needed to get this out before she lost the chance to.

“For the Storm Coast,” she pressed on, stubbornly. “I did not mean to disrespect your boundaries, Solas, nor take advantage of our friendship. You just have a way of—” 

Tephra frowned, sharply, at a loss of how to put it exactly. 

She wasn't entirely sure what this was, to begin with, only that it was complicated, and it had become important to her. 

“—drawing me out.”

Yes, _that._

All this time, even with her clan, she still retreated from making any lasting bonds with those around her. Loss was not something she tolerated well, and you could not miss what you didn't have to begin with.

Perhaps it was that self-same wariness she saw in him, that same hesitance — the fear of rejection, or loss. That sense of _oh, you too?_

Kinship in exile, in not belonging.

“I'm not good at being so open with people, or letting my guard down, but I've told you more than I have told most anyone in my life,” she confessed. “I'm sorry if I've gotten too familiar with you — for assuming you'd invite it in the first place.”

His silence was crushing as he regarded her with a tight, measured frown. “As I said before, you have nothing to apologize for. What lays ahead of us has made me rather grim and taciturn, for which you have mistaken for offense.”

“Give me time, I'm sure I'll offend you again soon enough,” she teased, with a tight smile. 

It was a futile attempt to coax him out of his gloominess, as he neither laughed, nor cracked the slightest smile at her jest.

“You should ready yourself for the unexpected. There is no saying what may transpire between us, and a magister whose toying with time magic,” Solas advised.

“If you insist,” Tephra sighed. As she shouldered her pack, she snarked, “Maybe one of these days we might have a real conversation, Solas. You know, actual communication — without omitting, or holding back.”

She could have laughed at how positively alarmed he looked. She hadn't meant to put pressure on him, she'd only meant to leave the door open for when — if ever — he cared to step through.

“No rush, Solas,” Tephra teased, with a crooked grin. “There's always later, right?”

She turned on her heel to follow after the others, and to avoid the sudden look which crossed his face. Grief — endless, and old, which he couldn't quite keep hidden from her.

It made her think of the mark in her hand, of time running out.

The consolation — the assurance that there was always later — felt hollow and brittle, yet she clung to it all the same.

 

———

 

Solas's pulse pounded as he followed after the Herald, as he walked amongst the others, straining to not betray the racing torrent of his own thoughts.

Redcliffe castle loomed ahead, ominously still and vacant of Fereldan soldiers. The magister had driven them all out when he'd taken up residence. If Alexius's men were present, they were cleverly concealed, even from him.

Solas could feel the weight of distorted magic pressing down on him, heavier with each step towards its epicenter. He could see that Dorian sensed it as well, if not as acutely. Whatever magics the magister toyed with alongside time, it was a desperate, grasping reach for power he should not have been able to reach for.

Despite the gravity of the situation, he could not quiet the war drum beating in his head with every pump of his heart. He needed to focus, to concentrate on what lay ahead of them — time magic, meddling Magisters, impossibilities made possible by the Breach — but all he could think of was how easy it would be to simply reach out and grasp her arm. It took great effort to keep his silence, to not confront such an open invitation, to question its context or depths, to—

Escape.

Confronted with such an impossibility, with something that ran so divergent with what he'd come to expect of this world, the urge to flee to safety was all-encompassing. To reassess, to see where his logic had gone wrong. 

Retreat was his oldest and safest compulsion, as nothing in his long life had ever been more reliable than his own company. In his youth, there had always been spirits, if he had need of of it; if he kept to his path, there always would be. Reliable company that neither shunned nor judged him, and always readily accepted his presence.

It had been liberating, in a way, to have approached the Inquisition as he had — as simply himself. He had worn the mantle of Fen'Harel for so long, he'd almost forgotten how to put it down. Even in uthenera, when he tried to reach out to the few Dreamers he came across, he could not be seperated from it. Those first attempts had shocked him, to be met with such vehemence.

He had promised freedom and salvation in breaking from the Evanuris, and all he'd brought them was ruin.

_Liar. Betrayer. Madman._

It had become such a familiar chorus, that even in waking amongst his agents, he'd been afraid of being shunned. It was all he could do, but cling to the mask to protect what remained of himself that was still his to keep. So it had been a relief, in its own way, to be able to move among those of the Inquisition as no one — as just another face among the crowds. 

They had acted predictably, of course — seeing only the ears, seeing only the mad apostate. That had not changed since the time of his youth, and he'd gotten quite used to even his friends regarding him as such — as an oddity, as a fool. As a madman. 

Those words, even when bestowed affectionately by his comrades, had been directed at him for so long that they no longer affected him any more. Even his most loyal companions had, in their own ways, struggled to understand his more divergent beliefs — if not offering acceptance, they at least managed to tolerate them. 

In the end, for all he'd sacrificed to save his people, all it had earned him was betrayal and invalidation — his name cursed for the centuries that followed.

Wisdom had warned him that such knowing came with a price, and it was his to pay alone — the estrangement, the isolation, all of it his alone to carry. Even now, for what he had to do, to make things right. 

They needed him to be that — the mantle, the mask, the madman. A figure, not a person, on which they could project all of their hopes. They relied on him to keep strong, to make things right; he could not afford to be weak.

As she could not afford to be, either.

And in that shared reality, there was kinship.

As much as she refused to accept the title placed on her, she had begin to learn what he had long ago — to put forward another face, to lock away one's own weaknesses to become what was needed. It pained him to see her learn such a lesson, to be held apart from the world as he had been before — as he was now, still. 

Perhaps, in that — together — there was an odd sort of redemption. A safe-keeping. Where one could put down the weight of all they carried, without fear of judgement or being sent away.

Its own kind of healing.

He had nearly given in to despair, nearly lost all hope, nearly given up and fled outright in the face of the Breach. She would not wake, and he had no other option avaiable to him. And then, she'd woken up — had sealed the rift with the least guidance from him. And with that, had reignited his hope that he could see this through to its end.

She had no way of knowing how much he leaned on her, at this point. How much he relied on her stubborness, her refusal to give up, her inability to admit defeat. 

Yet, a part of her had to have known — had to have recognized that same need for reassurance. Why else, of all of her companions, would she continue to seek him out when she needed to confess her fears, or seek solace in mutual understanding? 

There was something startlingly open about her, in that she neither rebuked him, nor derided him — she had not made him feel foolish for his thoughts or beliefs. She challenged him when she considered him wrong, but she was not inflexible to considering other truths. She listened, and she learned — just as he listened and learned from her. 

It occured to him, that in many ways, they were on equal footing with one another. 

There were still unbreachable disparities — the vast gulf of time and lived experiences between them, her disconnection from her true self, and all of the things he could not tell her — but what they shared bridged that distance far more effectively than any other being he'd known in a long time.

She was trapped between two worlds, just as he was. Trapped between her people, and the world around her. Trapped between duty, and self. 

The others could never grasp the entirety of thhe weight she carried, not as he could. The weight of expectations, of failure, of loss, of having to keep going for the sake of others.

He understood what it was to be a figure of hope, to be an idea — to be a figure on which those around him could project their own expectations and desires. To be depended on, to protect and care for them — and to sometimes fail them.

She had given him her word of protection, long before she had even tolerated him, and she had continued to fiercely enforce it. She had his back, as he had hers. 

It was dizzying, to suddenly have someone beside him on which he could depend. Someone just as strong in spirit, and just as broken. Strong enough to protect herself in most situations, as well as him.

The scar tissue deep in his thigh ached as he kept pace with the Herald, as if to remind him of how far she'd gone to preserve his life. 

Her stubborn strength offered him anchorage — ballast. Someone he could lean on, when the weight became too much. Someone he could be vulnerable with, without fear of judgement or being forsaken. 

There was something startlingly open about her, in that she neither rebuked him, nor derided him — she had not made him feel foolish for his thoughts or beliefs. She challenged him, when she considered him wrong, but she was not inflexible to considering other truths. She listened, and she learned, just as he listened and learned from her. 

With her, he was not Fen'Harel — not the feared Dread Wolf of her people — nor was he dismissed as a madman, as hysterical dissident.

She offered him a sense of acceptance, in a way he had never known outside of Wisdom. It felt _safe_ , and that terrified him — that she could be an equal; a partner. 

In all of his long life, despite however many lovers had come and gone, he had never truly had that. The sudden prospect of it inspired a reckless, consuming sense of hope.

It was a dangerous thing — _hope._

He could not reach for it, could not trust that it would bear the weight he carried. There was no certainty, no guarantee that he'd seen what he hoped for in her. His absurd loneliness put him at great risk for projecting onto her what he desired most, and it appalled him to even presume what she may or may not have wanted of him, beyond simple companionship. Yet still, even in that small thing, he feared being turned away. He feared losing what small ember of compassion she afford him, simply by treating him as a person.

Whatever this was, what they had now — this tentative friendship, however small it was — it had become precious to him. It anchored him, and kept his morale up. He could not risk losing that, not when there was still so far to go to stop Corypheus, to reclaim his focusing orb, to see his mission to its end.

It was selfish of him to lean so heavily on her, especially in that he could not tell her everything, but she came so willingly to share in his burden, in whatever small way she could. Perhaps he could, in his own way, help her to carry hers. That she could be vulnerable with him in a way the others could never understand, as he might with her. 

To know, and be known.

He could not give her the whole truth, but perhaps he could give her enough to make the weight bearable. 

It lightened his step, to think he could. 

To think that, yes, there was a later — however small, however limited — and she offered it to him all the same. She could not have known how precious a gift it was, and how little of it she had left to give anyone, least of all him. It conjured a different kind of fear in him — first, the hope that she would offer such to him. Her time was her life; a mortal, fleeting thing — burning brighter than any spirit in this blighted world had any right to. And secondly, the knowledge that he would lose it all the same, that it had been taken from him the moment he'd set foot on this path. 

That he'd robbed himself of any honest chance of ever deserving her — not in this world, or any other. 

As they passed through the open gates of Redcliffe castle, Solas fell into pace beside her. He was acutely aware of her proximity as he walked beside her, and the memory of her touch ghosted his nerves. 

Still, despite knowing that he could never begin to be worthy of her, he felt compelled to give her his gratitude. Perhaps after they returned to Haven, he could find time alone with her to convey his appreciation for her patience with him, and her continued attempts at companionship. 

She was right, in that. 

There was time.

It was a funny thing, in this world — _time_. 

It moved at a dizzying pace, as did the mortals. It forced him to consider things more quickly, to think on his toes, to act far more impulsively than he cared to. Yet it also gave him an appreciation for the finite, for the fleeting — for what could not last. For what could exist in the small space between now, and her end.

Guilt, however, ensured his silence; it stayed his hand more effectively than any doubt could.

“Look alive, Chuckles,” Varric quipped, suddenly beside him. He'd hefted his beloved crossbow up on his shoulder, and strolled with his usual swagger which belied his obvious unease. “Just because this place is empty, doesn't mean it is.”

“Surely the magister doesn't intend to ambush us outright,” the Herald mused. “That would be terribly rude of him.”

The courtyard was empty, and still, but for an errant breeze stirring the flowering trees.

“We of course are known for our manners in Tevinter,” Dorian joked. With a flourish, he began to weave a spell, “I'll meet you inside. It's probably best that Alexius doesn't know I'm here, just yet.”

With that, he slipped into concealment. The magic was sharp and efficient, if a bit flashy for Solas's taste.

The massive oak doors leading into the castle were left wide open, in a cocky display of anticipating the Herald's prompt acceptance to meet with the magister. It put him on guard, and he discreetly began to scan the area for hidden traps and offensive wards, or for Venatori agents laying in wait. He was surprised to find nothing, but for a valet awaiting them just inside the entrance.

Further inside, there was only a handful of the magister's men, which again seemed to be a brazen display of arrogance — as if to say, _I do not fear the Herald._

The valet gestured to stop them, as he blustered, “The magister's invitation was for Mistress Lavellan, and no one else. You lot wait here.”

“Where I go, they go,” Tephra shot back, sharply. 

Her tone was stolid — a practiced affect that reflected her attempts at mimicking those in positions of authority around her. Perhaps one day she might be more convincing, if she ever fully accepted the reality of her own position of power.

The valet glanced nervously between the Herald's companions, before relenting and giving a stiff nod. He turned on his heel to lead them down the hall, to where the magister awaited them. 

Predictably, Alexius occupied the throne, as though it had always belonged to him. He sat almost slouched, relaxed into a casual stance as though he awaited friends, rather than opponents. His son stood beside him in fraught silence.

“My friend! It's so good to see you again,” the magister declared, in a falsely cheery tone. He glanced over the rest of them, as he added, “And your... associates, of course. I'm sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

The Grand Enchanter idled just down the steps from the throne, clearly anxious at her predicament. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” she demanded.

“Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives,” Alexius chided, in a tone that one would use with a particularly petulant child.

“If the Grand Enchanter wants to be part of these talks, then I welcome her as a guest of the Inquisition,” Tephra interjected.

Solas felt a rush of pride, as he watched her deftly counter the magister's dismissal of the Grand Enchanter.

Fiona inclined her head to the Herald, “Thank you.”

If the magister was perturbed by having control of the situation briefly pried from his grasp, he did not show it. He simply shifted where he sat, to lean forward as he continued on, “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them.”

His posture was loose and seemingly relaxed, but Solas could feel the magic bristling just beneath the magister's skin, and he could not help but brace himself in anticipation of an attack.

“So, what shall you offer in exchange?” Alexius mused, as though they were not simply playing at the farce of negotiating terms.

For her part, Tephra was not fazed by the magister's flippant behavior. Amused, she quipped, “I'd much rather discuss your time magic.”

On that, the magister tensed. 

“I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean,” Alexius replied, in an affably dismissive tone.

Felix sighed, as he turned to face his father, “She knows everything.”

The magister turned to his son, thrown off by shock, “What have you done?”

“Your son is concerned that you're involved in something terrible,” Tephra remarked, in a gentler tone.

“So speaks the thief,” Alexius replied, dropping any pretense of civility. He rose from the throne, and demanded, “Do you think you can turn my son against me?”

“ _Father_ —”

The magister bellowed over his son's futile pleas, “You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark — a gift you don't even understand — and think you're in control?”

Solas tensed as the Herald stepped forward, as she shifted slowly into a defensive stance.

“You're nothing but a mistake,” the magister spat.

“If I'm a mistake, then what exactly was the Breach supposed to accomplish?”

_A good question_.

Even now, as he attempted to focus on preparing for battle, her uncanny perception caught him off guard.

“It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One — for this world!”

“Father, listen to yourself,” Felix entreated. “Do you know what you sound like?”

True to his ostentatious nature, Dorian strolled out of concealment, as he mused, “He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche expects us to be.”

“Dorian?” Once again, Alexius was thrown off by losing control of the situation. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this, but you turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe; he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

The Herald frowned, “That's who you serve? The one who killed the Divine? Is he a mage?”

“Soon, he will become a god,” the magister replied, with fervor. “He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean, to the Frozen Seas.”

Aghast, Fiona shouted, “You can't involve my people in this!”

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen,” Dorian pleaded, attempting to reason with his former mentor. “Why would you support this?”

Behind them, arrows whizzed past with brutal efficiency. The magister was too distracted to see his men begin to fall to Leliana's agents.

“Stop it, Father — please,” Felix implored. “Give up the Venatori, and let the southern mages fight the Breach. Let's go home.”

Alexius gave his son a pained look, “It's the only way, Felix. He can save you.”

“Save me?” the young man parroted, incredulous.

“There is a way, the Elder One promised,” Alexius insisted. “If I undo the mistake at the temple, he will spare your life.”

Gently, Felix said, “I'm going to die. You need to accept that.”

The magister would not be reasoned with. 

“Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this woman's life,” the deluded magister shouted. 

It was only then that he took notice of his fallen men; Alexius staggered back a step, as the last of them fell to arrows and swift daggers.

Tephra stood her ground, as she declared, “Your men are dead, Alexius. _Concede_.”

Despite the apparent victory, Solas's pulse quickened. He could feel the sudden weight and surge of magic building in the air, as the magister gathered an enormous amount of mana.

Solas turned just enough to conceal reaching for his staff, unbinding it from his back. He held it aloft, turned just so, as he tensed and prepared for the inevitable fight. He too worked to gather himself, preparing to snap a barrier in place should the magister be foolish enough to attack while so vastly outnumbered.

“You... are a mistake!” the magister spat, seething with rage. He slipped a small object from where he'd concealed it in the sleeve of his robe, brandishing it as one might a weapon. 

It was nothing more than a simple pendant, and yet Solas felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. 

There was no time to shout a warning, as the object sparked to life in the magister's hand.

“You never should have existed!”

Dorian reacted before he could, and sent an offensive spell hurtling at the magister as he shouted, “Alexius, _no!_ ”

The spell split across the magister's chest, sending him staggering backward. Disoriented by the sudden impact, Alexius's control over the spell he was weaving faltered.

The pendant in his hand exploded in a burst of verdant energy. 

Solas staggered backward, and brought his hands up to shield his face against the massive torrent of magic tearing through the fabric of time and reality around him. The others were sent sprawling to the floor from the force of the explosion, but he remained on his feet. 

Despite his weakened state, he was still far more resilient against magic than his companions. 

A portal spawned briefly as the spell tore through the world itself — a gaping maw of unstable magic, hissing and sparking — before it collapsed in on itself.

When the spell dissipated, and the air cleared, it became immediately obvious that the implosion had swallowed itself out of existence. 

And with it, it had taken the Herald.

_No._

Chaos erupted around him as the others flew into a fury, as the soldiers charged the magister outright. 

Solas staggered numbly to his knees, crushed beneath the sudden realization that he could no longer sense the Anchor — could no longer sense her. 

Its magic, as well as her spirit, had been erased from the world.

Sick with sudden grief and abject despair, Solas sat heavily on his heels. His staff clattered uselessly to the floor. 

_No, no — this cannot be._

She was gone, and she had taken all the hope that he'd had for saving this world — or his own — with her. It was as if she had never been, had never filled this ruinous world with her light.

Venatori swarmed in from the courtyard, and overwhelmed the Inquisition soldiers. 

Cassandra was howling with rage, as she charged the magister. His magic sent the Seeker hurtling back in a boneless heap. 

“Take them alive,” the Magister shouted over the chaos.

Sera was a blur of fury, as she fired on the Venatori. She loosed arrows until her quiver was empty, and shattered her bow over the head of the closest mage. A concussive spell sent her sprawling, and it was only then that she was subdued.

Solas was pulled to his feet by a pair of Venatori, and he sagged in their vice-like grip, boneless and numb with disbelief. 

How had this happened? How had he not anticipated what the magister had planned?

“Take them to the dungeons,” Alexius barked at his men. 

Solas was pulled along on shaking legs, still not grasping the entirety of his situation. 

The magister's voice followed them out of the hall, as he mused, “The Elder One will decide their fate.”

 

———

 

Time had long since ceased to be anything discernible to him. There was no light but for the glow of the red lyrium, and no way to mark the passing of days, no way to tell night from day. He could only measure its passing by the spaces between his breaths, and counting the distance drip of water echoing through the prison halls. 

It had been weeks, by his estimation, since the torturers had bothered with him. The others were held, as always, in separate areas of the prison. He did not know whether they still lived, or if they had succumbed by now — either to the careful ministrations of their captors, or to the red lyrium feasting off their bodies.

His own body was not long for this ruined world. He wasn't even sure why he continued to fight to draw breath, to grasp what little remained of his mind. 

Isolation had proved an effective tactic in breaking them — in breaking any hope for rescue. There was only silence to keep him company, and the whispering of tainted lyrium creeping through his thoughts.

He had long since ceased to fight his tormentors when they came for him. It was a futile endeavor, as the red lyrium in his body had effectively rendered him useless. The simplest of spells taxed his body immeasurably, and shortened what remained of his pitiful life.

The questions remained the same, even after all this time — How did Lavellan know of the Divine's role as a sacrifice to unlock the orb? How did Lavellan come to learn of the magister's plans? How did Lavellan wrest the Anchor from the Elder One's grasp? — as though they'd pry loose some truth the magister suspected was being stubbornly withheld from their self-appointed god.

Holding out against his captors had not been terribly difficult, as he was no stranger to such tactics. Yet, as the taint of the red lyrium spread through his body, it took away the one thing preserving his sanity. 

He could no longer dream, no matter how hard he tried to reach the Fade.

In the beginning, he had attempted to save what he could. 

He would recount the stories and history he'd witnessed in the dreaming over the long span of his life. He would tread through his own memories, recalling the faces of those once dear to him and quoting conversations they'd had together.

But as time wore on, alongside his inability to dream, madness crept in. He was forgetting things — more and more, with each passing day. Details and specifics became hazier, until finally dissipating into nothingness. 

When he realized that he was beginning to forget the faces of those he'd known, he began to picture her as often as he could — grasping at her from memory as though she were water, and he was dying of thirst.

It was all that sustained him anymore — holding on to her, as everything else was being stripped away from him. Soon, the red lyrium would strip everything from him, even her, as it consumed him entirely.

The tainted song was getting harder to ignore, and he could only silence it briefly when he thought of her, or recalled things she had said to him once, in another world.

The sound of groaning metal cut through the silence.

Solas did not react.

Reactions pleased his captors, and he no longer cared to entertain them. They would do what they wanted anyway, regardless of how he responded to their torments.

He kept his back to the bars of his cell, and continued to think of her. 

She had gotten him through many sessions beneath their instruments of torture before — thoughts of her would once again comfort him when the agony tore through him.

Two were approaching, which did not surprise him as the guards often came in pairs. They sounded different, as there was no heavy clank of templar armor, and they were oddly silent. 

_A trick_ , the lyrium whispered in his mind.

He'd long since stopped falling for their manipulations, for the games they adored to play with him — giving him false hope, and then snatching it away again. Sometimes they pretended to be his companions, coming to rescue him. Other times, he would wake from dreamless slumber to find his cell door ajar, only to be caught just outside the hall when he attempted to flee. 

He sighed, and asked, “Is someone there?”

He expected them to snicker, to give up their pretense, or perhaps curse him as they often did before dragging him out to face whatever new experiments they'd come up with.

When she spoke, the nightmare shattered around him.

“Solas?”

_No, it can't be._

Her voice cut through the tainted song, through the madness, through time itself — and anchored him.

_The Anchor._

Its song sang to him, piercing through his core.

Solas turned on his heel and staggered backwards at the sight of her. 

She was there, just beyond the bars.

_Not real_ , his tainted mind whispered.

Her dark eyes, her face — the grief which knit her eyebrows together in that familiar look of absolute empathy — all just as he remembered. 

The Herald was dead; she could not be here. 

Was he dreaming once again, at long last? Had death come to claim him?

No, this—

_This cannot be real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do try to avoid quoting too much from the game, as we've all tread over these scenes many times, but sometimes it is necessary to the plot to recount them. I will try my best to freshen them up, and keep it interesting. This chapter ran a bit short, only because it was egregiously bloated and I needed to split it into parts. They will be posted fairly shortly, I do apologize for the wait.


	15. We Do Terrible Things For The Ones We Love, Pt. II

That's the way things come clear. All of a sudden.  
And then you realize how obvious they've been all along.  
_—Madeleine L'Engle_

To have seen your lips and not ever kissed them  
would have been the ruin of me.  
_—Helen Oyeyemi_

 

 

She hurtled through the abyss at a sickening pace — through an endless, disorienting nothingness — until she came crashing down into rancid, shallow water. Tephra tumbled end over end, as she crashed into the stone flooring. Pain lanced through her knees, and then her shoulder as she hit the floor. She scrambled up on all fours, choking on old stagnant water. She retched and gasped for air, as a hand grasped her roughly by the collar of her coat and hauled her to her feet.

“Blood of the Elder One! Where'd they come from?!”

She had just enough time to scramble back from the swing of a soldier's sword. He stumbled in the water awkwardly, before he was blasted from his feet by a torrent of magic cast by Dorian.

The other soldier was too close and too quick for Dorian to get a spell off; Tephra kicked the man's legs out from beneath him as he attempted to rush past where she was sprawled to strike at her companion. The soldier went crashing to the ground, spluttering in the water.

A weight crashed into her back, and she found herself beneath the water again. She tried to push herself up, but the weight only pushed down harder as she struggled to rise. Panic flared in her chest, as her lungs began to burn.

She thought of the prison, of the water torture; she thought of struggling in the currents, trying to reach her brother before they both drowned.

Abject terror poured through her, as she managed to pull her legs beneath her. She pushed with all of her strength, kicking herself up off the floor, and sent both the soldier and herself sprawling backward. As he was scrambling up out of the water, she launched herself onto his back, and sent him back below. Tephra hooked an arm around his throat, and tightened it like a vice. She held on as he thrashed beneath her, and it took nearly all of her stamina to keep him there in the water until he stopped moving.

Dorian was finishing off the other soldier when she staggered up onto her feet and out of the water.

Her mind was racing, and flooded with adrenaline. _What the fuck just happened?_

They were in a prison cell of some sort, and there were massive growths of red lyrium coming out of the walls around them. Her ears were ringing, and it felt like a tremendous weight was pushing down upon her.

No, not down — it came from everywhere.

It reminded her of the the Breach, when she'd tried to close it, and it left her head throbbing with a ceaseless dull ache.

“Displacement? How _interesting_ ,” Dorian mused. “It's probably not what Alexius intended. The rift must have moved us — to what? The closest confluence of arcane energy?”

“I'm not sure I would call this interesting,” Tephra grumbled. “The last thing I remember, we were in the castle hall. Now we're wherever the hell this is.”

“We're certainly still in the castle, though... _it_ isn't,” he continued to muse, pacing through the shallow water. “Ah — of course! It's not simply where, it's when.” Dorian began to gesture excitedly, “Alexius used the amulet as a focus; it moved us through time.”

She gaped at him, “Through time? You're _serious?_ How far?”

“An excellent question. We'll have to find out, won't we?” he replied.

Crouching next to the soldier, Tephra began checking his pockets. She pulled out a ring of keys, “These'll come in handy.”

Following her to the barred gate, Dorian continued to contemplate their predicament, “I believe his original plan was to remove you from time completely. If that happened, you would have never been at the Temple Of Sacred Ashes, or mangled his Elder One's plan.”

“It'd be easier to take credit for that, if I remembered it happening,” she muttered, as she worked the lock and released it.

“I think your surprise in the castle hall made him reckless. He tossed us into the rift before he was ready. I countered it — the magic went wild, and here we are. Make sense?”

The hall was lined with more prison cells, and massive growths of red lyrium jutted through the walls and the floor. Water was spilling from fissures in the ceiling, which continued to flood into the cell block.

“Not really,” she admitted, as she began toward the stairs.

Dorian continued on behind her, “I don't even want to think about what this will do to the fabric of the world. We didn't travel through time so much as punch a whole through it and toss it in the privy.”

“As if the Breach weren't enough,” Tephra replied, grimly.

Dorian put a hand to her shoulder to stop her, as he assured, “I'm here. I'll protect you.”

She had already been growing fond of the ridiculous man, who pestered her so often on everything Dalish, which was a pleasant counterbalance to Solas's utter disinterest. She found that he was insatiably curious about many things, which made him enjoyable company to keep.

And here he was, stranded wherever — _whenever_ — the magister had magicked them off to. All because he'd decided to follow her and serve as companion.

Clearing her throat, she continued up the stairs, “What of the others? Do you suppose they were drawn through as well?”

“I doubt it was large enough to bring the whole room through. Alexius wouldn't risk catching himself or Felix in it. They're probably still where — and _when_ — we left them. In some sense, anyway.”

She thought of the magister's son, who was dying a slow death to the Blight. Alexius had shown his hand; all of his actions — going to the Venatori, taking the mages, meddling with time magic — had hinged on the promise of his son being saved.

“We do terrible things for the ones we love,” she mused, darkly.

“Pardon?”

“Alexius,” she clarified. “All of this — he's doing it to save his son.”

Dorian lapsed into a bruised silence beside her as they walked.

“You're close to him?” Clearing her throat, she clarified, “The magister's son.”

“For a while now, yes,” Dorian replied, quietly. “He was barely more than a boy when I became apprenticed to Alexius. He was such a earnest child, and headstrong.” He gave a sudden, warm smile, “He would sneak into my study to bring me treats and tea when I was up far too late studying.”

She thought of how her brother would creep up on her while she worked — making nets, or mending parts of their shelter — and leave handfuls of berries, or the rare peppercorns that only he managed to ever find in the forest. He'd known how much she loved them, and the spicy foods of their people she'd grown up on — how she missed them. He was always finding ways to give her things.

She stilled her face despite the pang in her chest, as she remarked, “Like a little brother would.”

“Yes, very much so,” Dorian agreed.

The prison was a maze of stairs and cell blocks, and many of the areas were blocked off by red lyrium growths or made impassable by structural damage. Many of the cells lay open, and were filled with skeletons and bodies in varying stages of decomposition. All of them were infected with the tainted lyrium; even the bone remnants bore them.

Tephra stopped to idle at a desk shoved against a wall, which was littered in an assortment of paperwork and books. There were bizarre anatomical drawings depicting gruesome experimentation and detailed diagrams of vivisections.

She was no stranger to the inner workings of the body — she had studied them, to some degree, with a well-known healer among the clans. Hefina, of Clan Vir'las, which was prided amongst the Dalish for producing adept healers as well as tutoring those who came to seek the knowledge. She had gone for two summers, as her father before her had, to learn of opening and mending bodies to the best of her ability. She, in turn, shared her father's work with their apothecaries, who regaled her with tales of his youth.

But _this_ — this was not for the healing of bodies.

“This is horrific,” Tephra said quietly, as she stared down at the abominable drawings.

“His obsession with curing his son has led us here,” Dorian sighed. “Oh, Alexius. What have you done?”

“Let's keep moving,” she said, reeling from the desk and pressing onward.

What had happened to their companions, after they fell into the portal? Did they manage to escape, or had they been taken prisoner? The sight of all the bodies left a sinking weight in her stomach, as any of them could have been one of her own.

They pushed onward, and up yet another flight of stairs. The dungeon was enormous and winding, and several times they ended up doubling back because of the impassible sections. They finally came to large room, with walkways made of iron grating suspended over water. They were spotted almost immediately by the guards idling at the far doors at either side of the room, but they had the advantage of being ranged fighters against simple warriors.

Tephra dropped to one knee, and loosed several arrows at the soldiers in quick succession. The first caught two in his gut, and a third in his throat, before sprawling to the floor. The other managed to avoid most of her shots, catching only one arrow in his shoulder. Dorian sent him tumbling off the walkway with a burst of crackling magic and into the waters far below.

There were only two paths to choose from, as the third way was inaccessible due to the bridge being drawn up. She had the sinking feeling that it was the prison's exit, and was drawn up to prevent escape.

“Well, then,” Dorian declared, cheerily. “Left, or right?”

“Unless the first happens to be the way out, I suspect we'll end up checking both,” she mused, before heading for the far right door.

They descended into the right wing of the prison, only to be met with much of the same. Red lyrium growing out of walls and floors and bodies, permeating nearly everything it could take root in.

Dorian was aghast at the sight of it, “If red lyrium is an infection, Maker, why is it coming out of the _walls?_ ”

“Are you sure you want to find out?” she asked, grimly.

In the next hall, more water was flowing down from cracks in the ceiling. She moved for the closest door, and readied her dagger, before stepping through. The last thing she needed was to be caught off guard by a patrolling guard.

The door groaned loudly on its rusting hinges, which echoed through the long hall of cell blocks.

She'd only just stepped inside, when a voice called out from one of the far cells.

“Is someone there?”

Tephra's heart leapt into her throat.

_Solas._

But his voice was wrong — distorted, and tainted. There was both wariness and resignation in his tone, as though he expected terrible things she could only begin to wonder at. Had he'd been here the entire time, however much time had lapsed between now and when the magister had magicked her away?

She quickened her pace through the flooded hall, stopping to peer into each cell until she found him.

He was standing with his back to the entrance of the cell. He kept his head bowed, and his shoulders slumped, as though he expected nothing less than the worst.

_Still alive._

Her heart was racing, as she called out to him, “Solas?”

He flinched as though he'd been struck, and turned to face her.

Her heart sank at the sight of him.

His eyes burned with the red glow of the tainted lyrium, and the flesh around them was dark and ashen. His skin was pallid, and the veins running through his body pulsed with that same unearthly red magic.

Solas staggered back at the sight of her, shock writ viscerally across his face. It did not last long, though, as suspicion set in.

“This is a trick,” he surmised. His red eyes bore into her, and his eyebrows knitted together in a pained look, “A clever one, though — I'll give the magister that much credit.”

Tephra stepped closer to the bars, “Solas—”

“Ma harel!” he spat, with sudden fury. “Do you take me for a fool?”

 _Oh, Solas._ Grief washed over her face as she watched him begin to pace, clearly distressed by her appearance. _What in the Void did they do to you?_

She turned back to Dorian, and quietly said, “I need a moment. Let me calm him down.”

Dorian looked between them, “I'll be just outside the door. Shout, if you need me. Someone should be keeping an eye out for the guards, anyhow. Might as well be me!”

As he left, Tephra moved back to stand by the bars that separated her from her companion. She needed to talk reason into him before she could release him; she could not risk hurting him, or herself.

Solas continued to pace the back of the cell, veering between fury and grief as he cast glances at her, as though he expected her to disappear at any given moment.

“What is the lie this time?” he seethed. “That the Commander yet lives, and his forces have taken the castle? That they've waited all this time to reveal her? She is _dead_. You cannot have her face.”

Tephra took hold of the bars, “Ask me, then. Something only I would know.”

He stopped pacing and regarded her with a fevered wariness.

“If it's a trick, then I won't know the answer, will I?” she reasoned.

Frowning sharply, Solas clasped his hands behind his back and approached the bars separating them. “Very well.”

Standing this close, she could see the effects of the red lyrium in his body in excruciating detail. Yet, behind the unearthly red glow in his eyes, he was still in there.

Still Solas.

He scanned her face with suspicion, as he said, “She gave me something once. After the fire. I don't remember the fire anymore, just her — burning. Saving something. She was always—” His face hardened, “You mocked me when you took it. You know what it was, but you wouldn't know what it meant. Why she gave it to me. Only she would.”

Tephra drew closer to the bars, pressing against them as she thought of the cabin in the Hinterlands. She thought of him, with her, in the water. Healing her hands. Then later, that long night in the tavern. Sitting by the fireplace, finding a small bit of peace drawing what she remembered from the dreams she'd had, from the stories he'd told. How his face had lit up when she'd given it to him, as though he had never been given a gift before in all of his life.

“You told me a story,” she said, finally. “Of the Star-Trees of the Tirashan. And the moths.”

Solas gave a start. He began to tremble as he lifted his hands to grip at the bars, putting them just above hers.

“I drew what I dreamt, and I gave it to you.”

The look of pain that crossed his face tore at her heart.

“I thought you'd have tossed that silly thing away by now,” she mused, with a humor she did not feel.

“I would not,” he assured, before shaking his head. “Ir abelas, I did not — they almost took it, too. Nearly all of it is gone, even you. You don't look like the you in my head anymore.”

“I don't—”

“They took the dreaming from me,” he continued, voice breaking with grief. “Everything else went with it. I tried to hold on to them, but the images keep disappearing — the words, the memories. Every time I wake from dreamless sleep, something else has been lost to me. The mortal mind is a fallible, useless thing. I feared the day that would come when it would all be gone from me. I'd sooner die than wake that day.”

It hurt beyond what she could put into words to see him like this.

Solas looked over her face, committing her to memory as though seeing her for the first time, or the last, “If I had lost you, too, I would have—”

Tephra shifted her hands to lay hers over his, compelled to comfort him, but he removed his hands from the bars quickly.

“No, you musn't,” Solas pleaded, as he stepped quickly out of her reach.

Her hands hovered at the bars a staggered moment, before falling back uselessly to her side. That she couldn't even comfort him, even in this small way, stabbed deep.

“Ir abelas, but I fear the lyrium will infect you if you touch me,” Solas said, more quietly. His eyebrows knit together as a softer expression crossed his half-dead face. “The intent matters more than you know.”

All this time, from the first moment they'd met, he'd spent so much of his time worrying for her well-being. Looking after her, tending her wounds, chiding her recklessness, and here she couldn't even—

Futile anger swelled in her.

What good was anything, if she couldn't even offer the smallest comfort?

She moved and began undoing the lock. She threw it angrily down the cell block, furious that she'd broken her promise.

Hadn't she sworn to keep him safe? To protect him from this sort of fate?

When she stepped into cell, Solas backed up against the wall, as though even close proximity to him could harm her.

As she stepped closer still, he raised his hands almost defensively, “You musn't.”

“I've been running around this stuff for a while now,” she replied. “I don't think this will hurt me anymore than it already has.”

When she took Solas into her arms, his resistance crumbled. His whole body slackened against her as he shuddered, and gave something very close to a sob.

Tephra ran her hand over his head, smoothing her palm against his scalp, “I am so sorry this happened to you, Solas. I'm going to make it right.”

“Ir abelas, I was a fool,” he pleaded quietly, voice shaking. “You would think such understanding would stop me from making such terrible mistakes. You would be wrong.”

“This isn't your fault,” she assured, and felt him begin to shake harder in her arms. She held him tighter against herself, “You're safe, Solas. In another world, this doesn't happen, and you're safe. I'll make it right, I promise.”

A ragged sound tore itself from him, as Solas leaned into her heavily, forcing her back a step. Old sorrow dredged up from whatever deep well he'd kept it hidden in all this time.

He buried his face against her neck, trembling and muttering in a rush of Elvhen she did not know, lyrical despite his ragged tone. She thought perhaps she heard him invoke the Dread Wolf, but his words were too rushed for her to be certain. The only thing she understood with any certainty were his breathy repetitions of _ir abelas_ — a plea for forgiveness.

“I don't know what you're saying, Solas, but if you need forgiveness you have it,” Tephra assured. She cupped the back of his head, “You're forgiven.”

When he drew back to look at her again, his face was shattered open with grief, left entirely unguarded as he confessed, “It is everything I could never tell you, before. I hope that I find the courage to tell you in the other world.”

“Your secrets were always safe with me,” Tephra reminded. “Whether you shared them, or not. Even here.”

A pained look crossed his face, as he reached for her face. Tephra's heart leapt into her throat as his fingertips ghosted her jaw.

“I was a fool, to have never—” he mused in a sorrowful tone, as his thumb brushed a slow, burning path across her mouth. There was nothing but grief in his face, as he said, “Not once — not ever. I should have told you.”

It became clear to her, in that moment, that he had — in his own way. Saying it, in not saying it.

She thought of him, that night in the little fishing town on the Storm Coast. Of him laughing, after he'd startled her off the statue in the elven ruins. He'd followed her to see her back to camp safely. Sitting with her in the sand, and enduring her grief with a respectful silence and not expecting her to speak of it. In her tent, startlingly close and playing along with her farce — her fumbling attempt at flirting. How he'd respectfully excused himself, rather than risk crossing boundaries with her when both of them were at an inebriated disadvantage.

She thought of him here, in this dark future, having spent all this time suffering a fate she couldn't begin to imagine, without the hope of it ever ending or being fixed. The old scars which littered his face, and what of his body she could see, said more than enough without him elaborating on them. She thought of him, alone in this cell and dying a slow death, cut off from dreaming, as his memory began to fail him, and that she had never, not once, either—

When he withdrew himself from her, she reached for his face and drew him back. Solas inhaled sharply through his nose as she pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

 _I am so sorry_ , she wanted to say, but it was a futile, useless thing.

His hands knotted in her hair, and he trembled as he returned the kiss gently.

It felt like finality.

It felt like saying goodbye.

When he pulled away from her, she let him.

“When you disappeared, the world fell. We fought, and we failed. I have not dared to hope that it could be undone, yet here you stand. Once again, you have surprised me.”

“Dorian has a plan, to make this right,” she assured. “Help me fix this, Solas.”

“I am dying, but no matter. My life is yours,” he said, as it were nothing to him at all. “If you can undo this, they can all be saved. This world is an abomination — it must never come to pass.”

 

———

 

The dining area in the barracks was a gruesome sight; Tephra found it hard to believe anyone actually _ate_ here.

Corpses and skeletons littered the floor, and some had even been left sitting in chairs as though they were honored guests. Yet sure enough, multitudes of dishes lined the tables, with food arrayed in varying stages of freshness and decay. Mostly decay.

Had Alexius's followers descended into madness, living in such proximity with the red lyrium for so long?

As Cassandra and Varric reemerged from the armory carrying armfuls of weapons and armor, Sera and Solas swept various items from the nearest table, clearing a space for them to lay out what little gear they'd found.

“Slim pickings, but it's all we got,” Varric grumbled. He sighed wistfully, “Wish they hadn't taken Bianca. Doesn't feel right fighting without her.”

Sera gave a snort, then gestured at the weapons, “You could always swing that mace there. Take 'em out at the knees.”

“Tempting, but I think I'll stick with you and Teph on the firing line,” Varric replied, a shadow of his old humor crossing his tainted face. “Just don't tell Bianca that I've been unfaithful.”

Dorian returned from one of the barracks carrying a simple mage's staff. He offered Solas an apologetic smile as he handed it to him, “Apologies, but this was all I found.”

“It will serve well enough. I will not have need of it for long,” Solas replied, grimly.

Dorian cleared his throat, and said nothing further.

As Cassandra worked to fasten her breastplate, she recited a hymn to herself, “The light shall see her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

“Hate to break it to you, Seeker, but no one's listening,” Varric mused, as he fastened vambraces to his arms that were a bit too big for him.

Cassandra fixed Tephra with an intense look, before replying, “Someone is.”

As she watched her dying companions don what meager armor they'd managed to scrape between them from the corpses littering the barracks, Tephra could not help but think, _I cannot fail them._

If she failed here, in this terrible future, she failed everyone. The world was dying, and everything she knew, and she had only one shot at getting back to fix it.

That truth weighed heavily on her, crushing her lungs and choking out her breath.

Dorian put his hand to her shoulder, in silent reassurance. She gave him a tight nod, before shrugging him off.

She couldn't afford to be weak.

“The Grand Enchanter said that Leliana is here,” Tephra said, turning her focus to the next goal.

She had to keep moving forward.

If she stopped too long or looked too closely at this terrible world, to consider the gravity of it all, she was lost.

The grief would consume her.

“She's probably still strung up in interrogation,” Sera remarked offhandedly, as she inspected the string on the bow she'd claimed. “They usually keep us there for a few days when they take us. Wastes their time hauling us back and forth and all, so they just leave us hanging there all night.”

Tephra's stomach heaved, as she looked over the various scars which marked Sera's face. They pulled at her features garishly, as she laughed to herself, at some grim memory which amused her.

Taking notice of her scrutiny, Sera's gaze skipped away in shame as she muttered, “They give the priests worse than that, anyways. Could always be worse than that.”

Her hand fisted at her side uselessly, nails digging trenches into her palm. The mark hissed and crackled to life, flaring up her forearm with a vigor she'd never seen before.

The magister would pay for this, if it was the last thing she did.

“You might not know,” Sera said quietly, almost to herself. “There were so many.” As she hefted the quiver up onto her shoulder, she continued, “The day you died? I ran out of arrows making them pay. Then it didn't matter anymore.”

_What am I supposed to say to that?_

What, if anything, could begin to express the nameless thing growing inside of her chest? Only that it beat alongside her heart with furious grief.

“The Inquisition broke itself on the walls of this castle,” Cassandra informed, as she fastened her sword belt. “Ferelden made three attempts, as well, but none could stop the Elder One from rising. Empress Celene was murdered, and the army that swept in afterwards — it was a horde of demons. Nothing stopped them. _Nothing_.”

“Everything is gone,” Sera added, in agreement. Her anger was palpable, as she continued, “Or red. And I just — I want them to hurt! If you're really here, I'll frigging die to spit in their faces.”

“I should have been here,” Tephra said, quietly.

Her words were raw and useless.

“You're here now,” the Seeker replied.

“Our only hope is to find the amulet that Alexius used to send us here,” Dorian spoke up, thankfully sparing her from her fumbling attempts to console her companions. “If it still exists, I can use it to reopen the rift at the exact spot we left.”

As an afterthought, he mused, “Maybe.”

“Good,” Cassandra said.

“I said _maybe_. It might also turn us into paste,” Dorian advised.

Tephra forced a cheeky grin, and said, “You're full of sunshine and hope.”

Dorian shot her a droll look, “That isn't _my_ job, Herald.”

Looking between her haggard companions, she assured, “I'm going to make this right.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure you're crazy. Or _I'm_ crazy,” Varric mused. “Either way, it's a nice thought. You want to take on Alexius? I'm in. Let's go.”

 

———

 

“There's no use to this defiance, little bird. There's no one left for you to protect!”

_Little bird._

Hearing the torturer mock Leliana with an endearment she'd once bestowed on her brother incited fury in her. Tephra barreled into the room, charging ahead of the others before they could protest, or stop her.

Inside the room, she was confronted with the sight of her advisor suspended from the ceiling by thick chains, shackled at the wrists. The torturer was holding Leliana's head back by her hair, and held a knife at her throat.

“You will _break_ ,” he hissed, unaware of Tephra's arrival.

“I will die first,” Leliana seethed. Her gaze shifted and met Tephra's; it took the spymaster all of a matter of seconds to recognize her, but if Leliana was surprised to see her, she did not show it.

Tephra gave a sudden, shrill whistle.

The soldier turned on his heel and gaped at her stupidly. “How—”

In a surge of uncanny strength, Leliana lifted her legs and locked them around the torturer's torso, effectively pinning his arms to his sides. “Or _you_ will.”

Tephra stalked toward him, feeling her fury mount with each step. He struggled to break free as the spymaster's grip tightened, but it was no use. She unsheathed her dagger, in no particular hurry as she approached the struggling man. It took surprisingly little effort for her to shove it up through the soft underside of his throat.

The torturer coughed and gasped, spitting blood across her face as he drowned in it. The spymaster only released her hold when the soldier stopped moving.

Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, as Tephra scowled down at the dead man.

_He died too quickly._

She consoled herself with the knowledge that there would be more to find later.

More to pay for what was done to her people.

She turned her attention back to her advisor, who stared at her with a burning, accusatory look.

“You're alive,” Leliana remarked, her voice barely above a whisper — as if she dared not believe her own eyes.

She heard the others come in behind her as she worked to unlatch the shackles and free the woman. “You're safe now.”

“Forget safe,” Leliana scoffed, as she was let down to stand on her own feet. “If you came back from the dead, you need to do _better_ than safe. You need to end this.” Her eyes — sharp as ever — scanned the group, as she confirmed, “You have weapons. Good.”

The spymaster moved to crouch at a heavy chest, and rummaged through it to retrieve her own weapons.

Dorian shot Tephra a frown, before eyeing the spymaster with a curious look, “You don't seem surprised to see us.”

“What I feel doesn't matter,” Leliana huffed, as she stood once more, shouldering a bow and quiver. “Nothing matters, but ending this.”

“I am,” Tephra assured. “I'm going to fix this.

“Alexius sent us into the future. This, his victory, his Elder One — it was never meant to be,” Dorian informed. “We have to reverse his spell. If we can get back to our present time, we can prevent this future from ever happening.”

Leliana fixed him with a hard stared, “And mages always wonder why people fear them. No one should have this power.”

“It's dangerous, yes, and unpredictable,” Dorian conceded. “Before the Breach, nothing we did—”

“Enough!” the spymaster snapped. She gestured between them, and her fury was palpable as she said, “This is all pretend to you. Some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It was real.”

Leliana's words twisted like a dagger in her gut, and spurred her to step closer to the woman, to put her hand out to her, to assure her, “Leliana—”

“ _No_ ,” she interrupted, in a clipped tone. “You don't get to do that, not here. Not now. I didn't break, and neither will you.”

Tephra withdrew her hand, and let the woman's words chasten her. Leliana was right; she could not afford to be weak. She had to hold it together, at least long enough to get back and to fix this.

“Carry that weight as long as you can — for us, and for the world,” the spymaster advised.

Tephra gave a terse nod, and made no further attempt to comfort the woman. “We need to know where to find Alexius.”

“That's the easy part,” Leliana scoffed. “He never leaves the main hall. With every failed attempt to return to the Conclave, the magister grows more paranoid as the Elder One will certainly kill him for his failure to do so.”

“Well, then—”

“That's as easy as this will get, though,” Leliana continued, in a tone that cut through Dorian's interruption more effectively than any blade. “He hides himself behind a shard door, as though it will keep the Elder One out when he comes for him.”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian cursed. “How in the Void did he manage to have one transported here?”

“Does it matter? There are five shards. Five of his spellbinders carry them. The only way to access him, is through them.”

_Keep moving forward._

“Then we find them,” Tephra said, and headed out into the hall.

“You should not lead, Herald,” Cassandra advised, as she moved ahead. “Whatever comes, I'll clear the way for you, as long as I'm able to.”

Her step faltered, but she did not stop.

_Forward._

 

———

 

She felt the press of the Breach before she stepped out into the courtyard, and the sight of it staggered her.

“The Breach, it's—”

“Fasta vass, it's _everywhere_ ,” Dorian gasped, turning on his heel in a slow circle as he gaped up what was once the sky.

“The veil is shattered,” Solas intoned. “There is no boundary now between the world and the Fade.”

This was what she'd been feeling since she had arrived in this dark future — the Fade itself. There wasn't a trace of blue left in the sky, only murky green, like an old bruise spread out over the world. The magic pressed in around her, invasive and heavy, and the mark in her hand throbbed deep in her bones.

The others were already moving ahead, when she managed to push herself back into motion. Something about being outside, or above ground, made it feel heavier. It was like walking through water.

“If we accomplish this, we can go back?” Cassandra cast a glance between Dorian and the spymaster, as she continued, “Will it be as though it never happened?”

“ _We_ die,” Leliana replied, in a flat tone. “They go back.”

It was neither pain nor fear which crossed Cassandra's face, but rather a quiet acceptance instead.

As if it were an acceptable loss to die, to make the world right again.

It hit her, then, and that truth was heavier than the Fade itself crushing down against her.

She had resigned herself to the truth that is was only her and Dorian who would be going back, had steeled herself against feeling the whole of it until after — but that was just it, wasn't it?

 _After_.

She would remember this, and they wouldn't.

They would be dead — this version of them, anyway — even if the other ones weren't. They would not live too see the world made right, nor would unmaking this world invalidate what they went through.

What had happened, happened.

Even if they were the only two to remember this broken world, even this brief glance of it, it was real.

Leliana was right.

She would have to carry that weight.

Varric continued to grapple with understanding the situation, as he turned his own questions to Solas, “Does that mean we never existed, or that this never happened? Even right now? Or does some version of this play out in the Fade forever?”

Solas looked to her, with an apologetic expression, as he said, “As long as one remains to remember it, it shall be reflected in the Fade.”

“Ugh, this hurts my head. I don't want to be nothing,” Sera groaned, and shook her head. She took a quick, steadying breath, before nodding to herself, “I'm going back. I won't remember this, so it won't be real. That's what matters.”

Leliana scoffed, “Tell yourself whatever you must to keep going. _That's_ what matters.”

Ahead of them, Dorian spoke up, “What became of Felix? Do you know?”

“Yes, I know,” the spymaster conceded.

When she said nothing further, Dorian prompted, “You're not going to tell me?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” she assured.

Frustrated, Dorian continued, “I'm just trying to understand what happened while we—”

“No,” Leliana snapped back, in a sharp tone. “You're talking to fill the silence. Nothing happened that you want to hear.”

When she looked to Solas at her side as they walked, he shook his head. “I do not wish to burden you with the details, either. I would not have you carry that back with you,” he said, quietly.

“I already have to,” she replied.

“Move carefully through here, Herald,” Cassandra called back to them, as she motioned ahead.

Ahead, the courtyard was split by a blockade of red lyrium growths, with only narrow paths running between them.

At first, they appeared to be the same as the other massive formations of red lyrium which grew out of every surface they rooted in, but when Tephra stepped around one, she found herself scrambling back in horror.

Dorian caught hold of her, keeping her from stumbling back into another formation behind them.

“Kaffas,” he cursed, as they both stared in horror at the sight around them.

The courtyard was filled with the massive eruptions, as if it were an orchard, yet it wasn't fruit they bore, but _bodies_.

At first glance, it seemed they to be entirely red templars, but on closer inspection, she could see that just as many bore their insignia.

 _Her_ people.

“I'd heard a small force had managed to infiltrate, but they failed just as the rest of us had,” Leliana mused, looking over the half-rotted face of one of their soldiers.

They had been there long enough to rot, yet the red lyrium seemed to preserve the bodies as it continued to feed on them.

As she stepped carefully through the pillars, Tephra caught sight of the Commander. She moved closer to look at his remains, mouth agape in horror and morbid fascination. She had never seen such a thing in her life, before coming to this horrible world.

His eyes remained open and unseeing, sunken into hollow sockets, and eruptions of glaring red crystals grew from the sallow flesh of his face. He was almost entirely encased in the lyrium.

When his eyes moved to meet hers, she gave a violent start and staggered back. “ _Pissing hell_ , they're still—”

“Alive? Of course they are,” the spymaster replied, darkly amused. “It feeds on us.”

She found herself turning in place, looking at all of the bodies — the _people_ — both theirs and the Elder's Ones, left here like bizarre half-living statues.

Leliana watched her with a tight, controlled expression, as she said, “We need to keep moving.”

“But he's—”

The spymaster acted before she could react or protest, and stepped up to the Commander. She produced a dagger, and swiftly drew it across his throat. Cullen opened his mouth as blood pumped in great spurts from his neck, but said nothing.

His death was disturbingly silent.

“We need to keep moving,” Leliana reiterated, as she wiped her dagger cleaned and continued ahead.

Tephra followed after, numbly.

The only thing she could feel was the anger growing inside of her, a furious grief at what had been done to her people — to the world itself — and at how they continued to protect her despite being half-dead, with only the smallest hope that she could fix it.

When they came upon Alexius's men idling outside the entrance to the castle proper, her fury took over. They had the advantage of surprise, as well as outnumbering them.

Tephra zeroed in on one of the spellbinders as she slipped into being unseen, and skirted the sudden outbreak of fighting. He neither saw nor sensed her approach, until she launched herself onto his back. He hooked an arm around his neck, and locked her legs around his torso, before stabbing her dagger deep into his windpipe and holding it there as he flailed and struggled to throw her off. He wheezed and struggled to breath, as blood began to fill his throat. She held on until he sank to his knees, and slumped to the ground.

The others had nearly finished the rest, but for one last spellbinder who was laid out on his back, clutching at the ruin of his chest where a spell had blown it open.

Despite the mortal wound, the man was _laughing_.

“You're too late, Herald of nothing,” the spellbinder mocked, between wheezing breaths. She crouched beside him, as the half-mad spellbinder exclaimed, “None can stop the Elder One. None have stood against him and lived!”

“He hasn't met _me_ ,” she seethed, and thrust her dagger into his exposed heart.

“Doesn't look like the Elder One is much interested in saving his followers,” Varric mused, with a humorless laugh.

Tephra stood, and let the others search the bodies. She brought a shaking hand to her face, to wipe her sweaty bangs out of her face, and let out a slow breath.

“This arsehole here has got something on him. Glowy bit,” Sera said, crouched by one of the spellbinders. She held up a red shard, which glimmered darkly between her bloodied fingers. “Maybe that's it, yeah? The door thingy.”

Dorian took the shard from her for a closer look, before surmising, “Yes, this looks right. I'll have to study it further, to be sure. Check the other two mages, see if they have them as well.”

“Study it as we go. The Elder One surely knows you're here by now,” Leliana advised. “If he gets here before you return to the past, then it is all over.”

“Cheery one, your spymaster,” Dorian quipped, as he tucked the shard into an interior pocket in his robe.

“Let's keep moving,” she replied.

 _Forward_.

 

———

 

Standing before the shard door, watching as Dorian worked to activate the magic and open it, Tephra felt a crushing sense of urgency.

Her companions stood around her, idling at a safe distance. They said nothing, as though they were just as aware as she was of how little time remained before the end.

But ending this meant ending _them_.

Not just Alexius, or this dark future, but her friends, and every person still living, every person born after the moment she'd been magicked into the future, and—

She glanced at Solas, who was watching her with a heavy gaze.

It felt wrong — _was_ wrong — but what choice did she have? Let this terrible future stand? Let the Elder One come and claim her?

It was an impossible choice, and not even hers to make, but who else could go back and stop this from happening?

She had to kill this world, to save the other.

She had to kill her friends, to save them.

It was an impossible thing to wrap her mind around, and only served to stoke the furious grief burning in her belly.

When she turned back to the door, Dorian was casting a spell over the shards he'd inserted into various recesses in the ornate stonework. They began to shimmer and brighten, and they were greeted with the sound of many locks shifting and unlocking inside the door.

The doors parted and swung open slowly, granting them access to the throne room.

She did not wait for the others as she strode into the room, letting anger guide her steps.

Alexius stood at the massive fireplace, watching the fire. He was clearly aware of her approach, yet he neither turned to meet her, nor spoke. A haggard man crouched near his feet, head bowed and muttering to himself.

She stopped and stood at the base of the steps, as she remarked, “I'd almost thought you'd be hiding behind another magic door.”

“There is no point — there's no longer anywhere to run,” The magister mused, before sighing. “I knew you would appear again. Not that it would be now, but I knew I hadn't destroyed you. My final failure.”

Dorian was at her side, as he called up to his former mentor, “Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? To yourself?”

Still, the man did not turn. There was something defeated about his posture — or perhaps he truly had nothing left to fear, but the Elder One. It only served to make her angrier.

“It doesn't matter now. All we can do is wait for the end,” Alexius replied, more to himself than to anyone. He started to laugh, and it was a half-mad, desperate thing. “The irony that you should appear _now_ , of all the possibilities! All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes — for me, for you, for us all.”

Tephra bristled, but it was the spymaster who acted first.

Leliana was up the steps before any of them could react, and she grabbed the ragged man by the collar of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. She held a dagger to his throat as the ragged man's head lolled back, and he was limp and unresponsive in her grip.

Alexius startled, and finally turned to face them as he reached for the man in Leliana's grip, “Felix!”

“ _That's_ Felix?” Dorian was at once aghast, and furious, as he shouted, “Maker's breath, Alexius, what have you done?”

“He would have died, Dorian! I _saved_ him!” the magister reasoned, mad with grief. He continued to hold out his hand to Leliana in a pacifying gesture, as he pleaded, “Please, don't hurt my son. I'll do anything you ask.”

Tephra let her anger harden her, as she said, “You can have him, if you hand over the amulet.”

“Let him go, and I swear you'll get what you want,” Alexius replied, as if he were in any position to bargain.

Leliana regarded the man with barely contained fury, and seethed, “I want the world back.”

With that, she drew the dagger across the apple of his throat.

The magister stared in shock, as his blighted son crumpled to the floor in a bleeding heap. He staggered toward him, as reality set in, “No, no, not my son, not my Felix—”

Enraged, Alexius brandished his staff and slammed the butt of it to the floor, sending out a concussive spell that sent them all stumbling backwards.

Tephra was sent — once again — tumbling end over end by the magister's magic. She rolled and was up on her feet quickly, as she focused on putting distance between herself and her opponent.

Powerful as he was, he was outnumbered. They only needed to—

Another spell tore through the hall, as the magister tore open a rift, loosing demons upon them.

Alexius shouted over the chaos, “Accept your death, as I have!”

As a wraith reared back to swipe at Tephra with its clawed hands, Cassandra knocked her back and met its blow with her shield.

She scrambled back on all fours, to put distance between herself and the demons. In a flash of energy and smoke, Alexius appeared from nowhere and towered over. As he raised his hand to ready a spell, she felt Solas's barrier magic snap down around her, and Dorian sent the magister tumbling through the air with a blast from his staff.

“Bad time to take a nap, Snowflake!” Varric quipped, as he continued to fire on the shades skirting the combat.

Tephra rolled and pushed herself off the ground, internally cursing herself for being caught off guard.

_Close the rift, you idiot._

She slipped the cloak on, letting the magic conceal her, as she padded through the combat and did her best to avoid friendly fire from the mages.

As the demons fell, she felt the mark pulse in her hand. When she neared the rift, she slipped out of concealment and let the mark hook itself into the rift. The torrent of energy felt fuller somehow, _different_ — as though the presence of the Fade around them changed how it worked. It burned up her arm, overcharged and bursting with power, as she tore the rift shut.

Tephra staggered and stumbled to her knees, gripping at her arm as the magic crackled and hissed around the limb. As she grappled with shaking off the effects of the mark, Alexius took advantage of her disorientation by sending a torrent of energy barreling towards her. She barely managed to push herself to her feet and scramble out of the way before it struck the floor where she'd been just seconds prior.

Fury burned in her gut as she watched him fade-step closer, skirting the combat to reach her. His movements were evenly measured each time he teleported, so that she could anticipate where he'd pop up next. Slipping her dagger free, she launched herself to the side to meet him when he reappeared once more.

His shock was satisfying, as she sank her dagger into his eye. She felt the end of it shatter against his skull, and the magister howled in pain and rage as she wrenched the rest of it free from his eye socket.

What remained there was a bloody ruin.

She felt the ends of her hair stand up as Alexius keened, and summoned a spell. Cassandra charged in, and bodily hauled Tephra out of the spell's reach as the magister loosed a concussive blast around himself.

It was Leliana who gave the killing blow, as she thrust her dagger through the magister's chest and stabbed deep into his heart. Alexius gave a breathless gasp as he sank to his knees, and slumped to the floor.

Dorian was crouched next to Alexius when Tephra reached him.

“He wanted to die, didn't he?” he mused, looking over the body of his former mentor. “All those lies he told himself, the justifications — he lost Felix long ago, and he didn't even notice.” Dorian pulled the amulet from an interior pocket of the magister's robes, and sighed as he stood, “Oh, Alexius...”

The pain on his face spurred her to console him, as she said, “This Alexius was too far gone. But the Alexius in our time might still be reasoned with.”

“I suppose that's true,” he replied, before stepping close to show her the amulet. “This is the amulet he used before — I think it's the same one we made in Minrathous, all those years. That's a relief. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used, and I should be able to reopen the rift.”

“An hour?” Leliana parroted, in an incredulous tone. “That's impossible! You must go now!”

The ground shook beneath them, in terrible accordance with the spymaster. The tremors caused her to stumble and right herself, as the castle shook around them. A deafening roar sounded distantly overhead, and Tephra felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

Was that a _dragon?_

She could not say for sure, as she'd never seen one before, and she really did not want to stick around to find out.

“The Elder One,” Leliana despaired.

Solas held out his hands to her, and pleaded, “You cannot stay here!”

A heavy look passed silently between her companions, as they came to an unspoken agreement.

_No._

Solas turned back to her, and said, “We'll hold the outer door. When they get past us, it will be your turn.”

She looked between them — battered and barely standing and in no condition to fight, let alone to hold the door against what was coming. Tephra shook her head, “No, please, I can't do this. I can't let you all kill yourselves for me. There must be another way.”

“Look at us — we're already dead,” Leliana informed. “The only way we live is if this day never comes.”

 _I can't do this_ , she wanted to say, but couldn't bring herself to.

This was their choice to make, not hers.

It twisted like a knife in her gut, as she swallowed any further protest.

As always, the Seeker read her like a book. The woman offered her a strained smiled, and said, “Be strong for us, Herald. Whatever comes, you will not face it alone.”

Tephra's hands fisted at her sides, as she resisted the urge to grab a hold of the woman, to offer what comfort she could, yet she could only watch as Cassandra turned and headed for the door.

What tenuous hold she had on her emotions broke at the sight of Sera, whose face was a mirror to her own furious grief.

“You would come back just to make me cry, you arse,” Sera complained, not quite meeting her gaze. “The other me better punch you in your dumb Herald face.”

“I'm sorry,” Tephra replied, voice wavering.

Sera sniffed and rubbed at her face, before taking a slow breath to steel herself. She finally met Tephra's gaze, and said, “Make it right, yeah? Make him pay for us.”

“I will,” she promised, still clutching the broken dagger with the magister's blood on it.

The other Alexius would be lucky to still have both of his eyes when she was done with him.

Tephra swallowed at the hard lump forming in her throat, as Varric stepped up to her.

She'd never told him, not once, what he'd meant to her.

Better here, than never.

“You were the best of them, you know,” she informed, voice breaking around the confession. “From the start, you treated me like a person.”

She strained to hold back most of it, but could not stop the tears rolling down her face as she looked at him.

“Come on, kid. No tears,” Varric scolded gruffly. “This shit ain't worth the salt.”

When she moved to embrace him, he held up his hands to stop her.

“No — save it for the not-infected me,” he said. “We only got one shot at this, Teph. No good sending you back infected with this red shit.”

She gave a trembling nod, as she fought to regain her composure. “I'm gonna hug the shit out of your stupid face when I get back,” she griped, finally.

Varric gestured and tipped up his own chin, as he said, “Chin up, Snowflake. I'll see you soon.”

She watched him walk out with Sera, leaving only—

Tephra shook her head as she turned to him, “I don't know how to do this, Solas.”

His eyebrows drew together in a gentle expression, as he said, “I meant it, that night on the beach — I mean it still. I am with you, until the end. In this world, and the next.”

She shook her head, stubbornly, and reached for him. He backed away from her, and held his hands up to ward her off.

“Please, don't,” he begged. “I cannot do what I must, not if you touch me again. I do not have the strength left to leave you, if you do. I have taken enough from you — I cannot bear to take any more.”

What did he mean — _taken?_ Taken what from her?

Tephra frowned, “You haven't—”

“Let me do this,” he entreated. “Let this be enough.”

She exhaled raggedly as he turned from her, and for a moment she could see his resolve wavering as he stopped.

He did not turn back to meet her gaze, as he said, “When you return, tell him — tell _me_ — that the path is wrong.”

She frowned, “I don't—”

He faced her with a look of absolute conviction, as he assured, “I will know what it means. _The path is wrong_. I was wrong. I pray that I listen, this time.”

Tephra nodded, furiously blinking away the tears in her eyes, “Of course I will.”

He said nothing more as he left her there, and she resisted the urge to call him back.

As the doors shut behind her companions, Solas cast one last look back to her.

The weight of it took the breath out of her lungs.

Tephra gave a terse nod to him as the doors shut between them.

Dorian was once again at her side, and said nothing as he took her gently by the arm. She let him lead her to where Alexius had first cast his spell to send them here.

“Cast your spell,” Leliana called after them, as she readied herself and faced the door. She raised her bow, and waited for the inevitable, “You have as much time as I have arrows.”

 _I won't let it end here_ , Tephra thought to herself, as she followed Dorian up the steps.

_I won't let them die for nothing._

 

———

 

One last look was enough, to say all that he could not bear to burden her with. He could not risk that she might falter because of him, so he carried it with him into the fray as the demons fell upon them.

Dying was nothing to him, if it meant that it all could be undone. For her, for the world, for his people — dying was far simpler than anything he'd endured to make things right in his long life.

When his barrier spell broke, the last of his strength went with it.

The terror demon grasped him by the throat and lifted him from the ground as if he were nothing more than a toy. Solas dropped his staff, and began clawing at the demon's hand, to no avail. Its grip only tightened, and crushed the air out of his throat.

_This is not the end._

Solas could feel the power of Dorian's spell radiating out from the throne room, reaching its apex. It was a comfort, to know that he had succeeded. He would take her back, and make this right.

The terror demon reared back, before thrusting its other claw into his chest cavity. Solas gasped, and went slack in the demon's grip.

The pain was beyond everything, and the world began to dim around him.

As it thrust its claw further into him, tearing through bone and sinew in search of his heart, Solas consoled himself with the knowledge that the demon would not find it.

His heart was in the other room, and soon would be safe and far from here.

Solas closed his eyes, and thought of her.

_Ar lath—_

 

———

 

Solas staggered numbly to his knees, crushed beneath the sudden realization that he could no longer sense the Anchor — could no longer sense _her_.

_No, no — this cannot be._

Something had gone terribly wrong.

His stomach heaved with grief as his mind grappled with the reality that she was gone, erased from the world as though she'd never been. Her spirit, her life, her—

The portal tore through the world once more, as magic flooded the room in a torrent of energy. Solas shielded his face again, feeling the burn of raw magic singing across his skin, but forced himself to peer through the chaos of black smoke and crackling green energy. He held his breath, and dared to hope that once again she would surprise him.

The Herald of Andraste came striding out of the portal as if she'd never been gone, battered and bleeding, a storm of fury and grief barely contained by flesh. She turned to look a each of her companions, breathing raggedly and shaking where she stood.

Whatever had happened between the time of Alexius's original spell, and whatever had brought them back, the Herald standing before them now was not the Herald who'd been swallowed up into that void of time magic.

She turned to stalk toward the magister, who in turn withered at her approach. Tephra stood over him with a stillness and silence that filled the entirety of the hall.

With little more than a sigh, Alexius sank to his knees and submitted to defeat.

It was not enough for her that the magister surrendered.

The Herald struck him in the face with her fist, as she raged, “Do you even know what you did?!”

Alexius spat blood on the stone flooring beneath him, and did not meet her gaze out of shame.

“You would have killed the world because of him,” she seethed. “You don't get to make that choice!”

The bottom fell out of Solas's stomach at her words, as he watched rage swallow her whole.

“I just wanted — you don't understand, he's _dying_ ,” Alexius pleaded in a hollow tone. “I couldn't lose my son, not him too—”

Tephra seized the magister by the collar of his robes and hauled him up, just enough to force him to look at her as she berated him, “You think you're the only asshole in the world whose ever lost someone?! We've _all_ lost someone! You don't see us breaking the world just to — just to—”

She moved to strike him again, but it was Dorian's hand who stayed the blow with a gentle touch. Her hands were shaking when she released the magister.

Tephra drew herself up, and stared down at the defeated man with cold fury as she said, “Concede, Alexius,”

“You've won. There is no point extending this charade,” the magister sighed. He looked to his son, and grief broke across his face, “Felix...”

The magister's son crouched beside him, and gently assured, “It's going to be alright, father.”

Alexius shook his head, “But you'll die.”

“Everyone dies,” Felix replied, simply.

The magister bowed his head and gave a ragged sob, as the Inquisition soldiers took him into custody.

Solas could not help but gravitate toward her as she moved down the steps to meet her companions. She was still shaking as she reached out to clasp Cassandra's arm with one hand, and Varric's shoulder with the other.

She regarded them with a tight, sorrowful expression that she hid poorly. Her usual composure was a frayed, brittle thing, and she could not keep the grief from her face.

When she turned to him, Solas found himself bracing for the inevitable reality of her touch. It tore at him to see her like this — so thoroughly broken by whatever she'd gone through without them. He wanted nothing more than to console her, to take her into his arms.

Tephra reached out to him and put her palm to his chest, just over where his heart beat out an erratic pace against his ribs. As if to confirm that yes, he was still there, still with them, still—

What had happened to her, for her to be so shaken?

Solas laid his hand over hers, to offer what small comfort he could.

Tephra took a shuddering breath, and withdrew. When she turned to address the hall, she was once again the Herald. She donned the mask, and the mantle, and hid her grief as she spoke with an authority she had not had before.

 

———

 

Outside, the world was a torrent of cold rain and biting winds.

It was fitting, really, that the weather seemed to mirror the tumult of emotions raging through her.

She avoided her companions as she made her way through their forces, between the wagons and the horses and the soldiers. The pain and grief of seeing them die was still too raw, too real.

She couldn't be around them.

Not now — not yet.

It was Dorian who found her, soaked and shivering against one of the wagons, attempting to get a hold on her ragged emotions.

“Ah, there you are,” he exclaimed, almost cheerily.

It was only when she looked at him, that she saw the concern on his face.

“Come,” he bid, and gestured for her to follow. “I know precisely what you need.”

“If it involves magic, I'll have to sit this one out,” she called after him, though she still followed after him through the mud and rain. “I've had my fill of it today, I'm afraid.”

“No, it's better than magic,” he laughed. “More effective, too.”

Dorian led her to one of the transport wagons, which idled with its rear doors left open. He gave a ridiculous bow as he gestured for her to enter it.

She gave an amused huff, “I don't—”

“No arguments, Herald, if you would just trust me on this,” he chided, still holding himself in that ridiculous position.

She gave an annoyed sigh, before climbing up into the wagon.

At least it was dry inside.

Several lanterns hung from the ceiling, which bathed the interior in a warm glow. A good portion of the wagon was occupied by crates and supplies, but Dorian had cleared a section for them. He'd arranged an assortment of cushions and pillows around a ridiculously elaborate array of finger foods and bottles of alcohol.

Where in the world had he found the time to scrape up such food? She idly wondered if he'd pilfered it from the castle's kitchen.

She gave an incredulous laugh, “What's all this?”

“A well-earned reprieve, if you ask me,” Dorian quipped, as he shut the wagon doors behind them and moved to claim his own section on the mound of pillows.

They looked suspiciously like the ones she'd seen in the great hall, on the fancy couches that lined the hall for guests to await their turn to address the Arl.

She settled down across from him, and reached for the nearest bottle of alcohol. It was some fancy whiskey, from some place she'd never heard of.

 _This is probably from the castle kitchen, too_ , she mused, with dark amusement.

“As we've got a long trip home, I thought you'd might like to spend a portion of it drunk. Or all of it, really,” Dorian said, as he reached for a bottle of wine. “I know I certainly want to be, given the day's events.”

“I don't even know what to say to them, how to explain any of it,” she sighed, as she uncorked the bottle. She took a long drink, before musing, “How do you tell someone you watched them die?”

“Preferably, you don't,” Dorian chuckled. “Stick to what they need to know. The rest is just—”

He sighed, and said nothing more.

“A weight for us to carry alone,” she said, thinking on what Leliana had said to her in that dark future.

Dorian watched her with a tight expression, before shifting and reaching for a plum, “So, this apostate friend of yours... You're rather close, aren't you?”

Tephra frowned, and felt the flush creeping up her face as she said, “If you breathe a word of what happened in that dark future with Solas, I will destroy you.” She offered a sharp smile, “I'm quite fond of you, Dorian, so I'd rather not. But I will, if I must.”

He gave a hearty laugh, “Yes, of course, I will keep your secrets, Herald. And delight in reminding you of them every chance I get, when we're alone.”

“You're an ass.”

“I've been accused of worse,” he mused, fondly. He met her gaze again with a soft expression, “I'm sorry that you had to see your friends die. Take comfort in that you prevented it from happening.”

 _It still happened. It could, still_ , she thought, grimly.

Another time, another way.

Where else could this bloody path lead her, but to more death?

“I'm sorry yours still is,” she replied quietly, thinking of the magister's son.

“Yes, well—” Dorian heaved a heavy sigh, and changed the subject, “Drink, my friend. Say what you must, or nothing at all. Shout, curse, cry — whatever you must do. It will not leave the small space of this wagon.”

She regarded him with a tight look, before reaching over the clasp his hand. “I'm glad you're here, Dorian. Do stay with us a while.”

“I'm sure I'll wear out my welcome eventually,” he laughed.

She drank deeply, as the wagon began to roll forward. Eventually, Cassandra would come looking for her, but for now she intended to get very drunk.

Everything else — the mages, her companions ire for allying with them, whatever came next — could be sorted out later.

She thought of the magister, and how he had done what he'd had on the misguided hope of saving his son. He had damned the whole world just for the chance to, and even that had been rotten fruit offered from a would-be god who couldn't even cure one man of the blight.

It filled her with futile anger to think of that nameless, faceless enemy of theirs out there somewhere, actively working to break their world apart.

And for what?

_Ruin and death._

Yet the horrible truth was that she was now no different from Alexius.

_I killed a world for them._

She drank deeply from the whiskey as her own words came back to her then, filtering in through the burning haze of alcohol.

_We do terrible things for the ones we love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for the few scattered chunks of parroted dialogue from the game, I tried to keep that to a minimum. 
> 
> This statement is due to change, but I officially consider this chapter to be my best, thus far. I am happiest with it, at least, though it was incredibly emotionally draining to write. I hope you all enjoyed it, sad as it was! Do let me know. 
> 
> Playlist update: [Vol. 4](https://youtu.be/NznlIxK6IzM?list=PLpg4CnzEJOnkglJJsCux5iVhpoMEBL53l)
> 
> Specific Elven used:  
> Ma harel / You lie


	16. Nothing Seems Real Until It Touches You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic soundtrack: [Vol. 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bpl28l7FWc4&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlBbExh9uo8pdNn6JT6aaU8) (Covers Chapter 16)

Who's the real you? The person who did something awful,  
or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did?  
Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?  
_―Rebecca Stead, Goodbye Stranger_

She was extending a hand that I didn’t know how to take,  
so I broke its fingers with my silence.  
_— Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_

 

 

It took most of the day to find young enough saplings to uproot in the forest outside of Haven, as well as to haul them to the memorial site by the river. By the time she finished re-planting them, the sun was low on the horizon. Together, they formed a wide circle on a small rise overlooking the river.

She didn't know the Andrastian hymns, nor what words the dwarves said for their dead. She only knew how to grieve the way she'd been taught, so she honored them with the trees. She bound elfroot and aromatic herbs, to burn in offering. And the words, which seemed so small now, to grieve an entire world — _ea revas, ea atisha._

Tephra sat amongst the newly replanted saplings in the dirt and snow, polishing off a bottle of mead. She had done little more than drink during the entirety of the trip back to Haven, nor since she arrived. Thankfully, her companions and advisors had granted her a reprieve from her duties, under the guise of resting. And blessedly, space. None had come looking for her, not since the morning. It wouldn't last much longer, given all that needed to be addressed, but for the moment she was thankful for the silence and the solitude.

In the other hand, she held her mother's dagger.

It had served her so faithfully all these years, and withstood countless battles — true to the nature of the halla, to be so indomitable — and fitting to have only broken now, while slaying the one who broke the world.

Tephra turned the halla bone dagger in her grip and struck it deep into the ground. Her head was pounding and her stomach heaved, as she left it there and struggled to her feet.

She left it there as tribute to the world that was.

To the world she'd killed.

She still had blood on her from that world, though none of it belonged to her companions that died. Still, it was all that remained of that world. All that remained as proof that it ever existed. It was grim to leave it unaddressed, but for the time being she could not bear to wash it away. As though doing so meant that it hadn't happened at all, as though that world had never even existed.

It was a slow walk back to Haven, and the training yards were curiously empty. She suspected the Commander was still briefing the soldiers on their new mage allies, doing what he could to avoid open confrontation between them.

Much to his exasperation, she'd ordered him to dismiss anyone who might seem a threat to the mages, or to their families. She had taken these people in as allies and offered them protection, to keep them safe from persecution. She would not suffer any insubordination on the matter.

She wasn't looking forward to discussing the matter with her companions and advisors, as few — if any — agreed with her decisions. Then again, they had put this decision on her to make, and she had. And if they cared to disagree, well, she wouldn't be Herald for much longer, would she? The attempt on the Breach was imminent, and if it was successful, then she would be going home.

No more Chantry politics, no more Herald bullshit.

It was the one bright spot left in her life to look forward to — that she could still go home.

And perhaps she could take the clanless apostate with her, if he cared to go. He belonged to no clan, but she would claim him — she would would offer him safety among her people. Though she doubted she could court him to the Dalish way of life, stubborn ass that he was when it came down to it.

The idle thought brought to mind the sight of him being dragged into the throne room and thrown to the floor, lifeless and bloodied, just before the culmination of Dorian's spell.

Her mind reeled back from the memory, fleeing from it alongside all the rest — the dying world, her dying companions, and the absence of any hope to mend it.

Between the tents, she found two soldiers sitting together on crates by a small campfire. It was the medics from before; Alleras, and Kazem. They were both smoking elfroot — the smell was unmistakable — using traditional Dalish pipes.

Alleras stopped mid-inhale and shot her a look of surprise, before erupting in a fit of coughs.

“Don't mind him,” Kazem intoned, flatly. “He's human.”

“Skipping out on the Commander's speech to smoke elfroot,” she mused, as she took the pipe from the wheezing soldier before he inevitably dropped it. She sat on the crate beside him, and took a long drag from the pipe. “I've seen him dismiss soldiers for less. Have you got something against the mages?”

Alleras shot the other medic an amused look, before reclaiming his pipe from her and taking a drag, “How about it, Kaz? Would you say I hold anything against mages?”

Kazem regarded him with a droll expression, and said, “On occasion. And vigorously.” With that, he raised a hand and snapped. Fire sparked between his fingertips as he re-lit his own pipe.

Alleras coughed and cleared his throat, at once highly amused and delightfully flustered.

Tephra did not miss the silent look exchanged between them. She was suddenly aware that she had intruded — rather rudely, even — upon their private defection from the Commander's meeting. She briefly considered leaving, until Kazem spoke again.

“You were planting trees,” he observed. “Did you lose someone in Redcliffe?”

Perhaps the river hadn't been the most private place to mourn, after all.

“In a way,” she replied.

He responded with a consoling phrase in Elven, but his accent made it difficult to discern beyond his rolling approximation of _ir abelas._

Still, she appreciated the gesture.

“Sure doesn't inspire much confidence if all we have are funerals every time somebody comes back,” Alleras mused.

Being medics, they were certain to see more of the true toll of the conflict than anyone else.

“I'll be sure to order everyone to try harder about not dying, then,” she replied, with grim humor.

Alleras gave a low laugh. “It would make our work a bit easier, Herald.”

Despite the shelter between the tents, the biting winds sent a tremble through her. She turned her attention back to the foreign elf, and thought of the strange lands he hailed from. Though she had traveled through the Free Marches extensively, as well as parts of Nevarra, she had never been through any of the deserts in Thedas. All she knew of them were there scattered tales from the traders who came and went between the clans.

“What's it like?” she asked. “Where you're from.”

“Harsh, and unforgiving,” he replied, simply. “There is little more than absolute truth in the desert. Everything is laid bare, even the bones of the world. It's more beautiful than any of your soft green lands.” He regarded her with a curious look, “Has your clan never wandered that far west?”

“Not in my time, no,” she replied. A wistful smile pulled at her mouth, as she assured, “I will see it, though — all of it. One day.”

Tephra thought of her parents, briefly. Of how they traveled between the clans to trade books and knowledge among their people. She had experienced some of that, as a child, before everything changed. It had given her a hunger for the world — for seeking, and for learning.

It had been something she had been considering, before the Conclave. Of turning from her duties as a ranger and scout, and focusing on lore-trading and traveling. She was not bound as a First or Second, nor was she bonded. She had spent more time away in her life than she had with her clan — and no matter where she went, she could always go back.

Such a life was absolutely appealing to her.

_After._

It was so close now; she was almost done.

Despite the death, and the grief, she felt almost giddy. The Breach would be closed, and the world would go back to what it was before. The human conflict was their own, and they would surely have no further need of her, not truly. And she did not mean to stay and be used as a pawn.

The medic pulled her from her thoughts with an odd question.

“Your people regard the Wolf unfavorably, do they not?”

The wolf?

_Fen'Harel._

Didn't most? What made him expect she was any different?

She regarded Kazem with a curious frown, as she remarked, “The particularly superstitious ones do, I suppose.”

His eyebrow quirked, as he asked, “And you do not?”

Her mind turned to the old stories — of slow arrows and the Great Betrayal, and the heavy cost of seeking his dark wisdom. He would offer it freely to those who sought him out, but taking such council was much like grasping a dagger with no handle.

There was always a cost.

Still, it was only stories her people told. There were no gods, and the immortals were long gone — if they ever were real at all, none were left to answer for them.

She gave an amused huff, “It's all just stories to me.”

“I suppose that's all we ever are, in the end,” Kazem mused, with a wry smile.

Tephra was frowning again, as she asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Because you were planting trees,” he replied, simply.

He wasn't making any sense — none that she could follow, at least.

“What does one have to do with the other?” she asked.

“Your people portray him as the god of deceit — of trickery. We see him differently in the west,” Kazem continued.

“Your people,” Tephra parroted, flatly. _He sounds like Solas_. “Are we not of the same people?”

“Each generation moves further from what we once were, no matter how we hold to the old ways. Clan to clan, time makes strangers of us all,” he replied rather wistfully, as he exhaled a stream of smoke. As he passed his pipe to her, he continued, “To us, he represents rebellion. _Hellathen_. The noble struggle. What are we now, in our mortality, but those who struggle? After the Dales, we began to plant trees for our dead, as an act of defiance. As an act of rebellion. In that way, we honor him — whether we mean to, or not.”

She regarded him with a curious frown.

By her clan's standards, his statements made him a heretic, but she found his honesty and his strange views refreshing. Her head was swimming from the mead and the elfroot smoke, but curiosity sharpened her focus as she eyed the marks on his face, “Are they like vallaslin? Your marks.”

Kazem chuckled, “No, these are gained by merit alone, not to mark one's passage from youth to adulthood. They honor no gods.” He smiled at the question in her eyes before she spoke it, and added, “They're for all the times I have been sent to the Beyond and back.”

Alleras gave a low laugh, “They're rather unimpressive compared to—”

Another look passed between them which brought a flush to her face. They were an odd pair, but clearly _companionable_.

It was good that they could find such, in the middle of a war and under the threat of the world ending.

Still, Kazem was the stranger of the two. His presence here alone was mystifying.

A Dalish elf amongst Chantry men, fighting to end a decidedly human conflict. Was he perhaps Andrastian? Or had something else brought him here?

It wasn't that there weren't elves among the Inquisition, but most were city elves, or elf-blooded. The only Dalish amongst them besides him were herself, and the supposed-archer in the Bull's Chargers.

What had brought him so far from the Anderfels? Had he been sent by his clan, as she had?

Tephra did not have the opportunity to ask him, as the Spymaster spoke up behind her.

“You would do well to not be spotted by the Commander. He's rather severe with those who duck out of his lectures,” the Spymaster noted.

Alleras blanched, and sprang to his feet. He quickly emptied his pipe and tucked it away.

If Kazem was flustered, he was much better at concealing it than his companion. He simply stood and gave a nod of his head, “Apologies, Sister Leliana. We'll take our leave.”

The medics departed quickly, and without further word.

“They're rather frightened of you,” Tephra observed, with amusement.

Much to her surprise, Leliana laughed.

She wasn't certain she had ever seen the woman smile, let alone _laugh._

“Then I am doing my job well,” the Spymaster replied. “Though, it is a pity they took their elfroot with them. I would have welcomed a brief distraction before the meeting.”

Tephra's heart sank. “Meeting?”

Leliana looked respectfully contrite as she informed, “They could not wait any longer, despite my own protests on your behalf.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” she huffed. She downed the rest of her mead, before throwing the bottle into the campfire. “I've only been back, what — three hours? Possibly four? We can't let the Herald idle too long, can we? It's not as if I was doing anything that mattered, right?”

Tephra ignored the brief, delicate expression which shadowed the Spymaster's face as she stood, and barreled ahead, “Off we go, then.”

Leliana said nothing as she fell into step beside her, opting instead to leave her to brood in silence. It was only when the crested the stairwell beyond the gates, that she spoke again.

“I could throttle Cullen for pushing this issue tonight,” the Spymaster muttered. “The rest were content to leave it for tomorrow, so that you could rest.”

Despite her frustration, Tephra felt her anger slipping away into something softer as she looked at the woman walking beside her. It surprised her that Leliana felt outraged on her behalf, that she cared at all of her welfare beyond what made her useful to the Inquisition. She hadn't spent much time with the Spymaster, beyond her clumsy attempt at consoling her over the death of the Divine, as so much of her time had been spent away from Haven than in it.

Looking away, Tephra mused, “No one's asked about it.”

“Dorian's told us of this “Elder One”, and what Alexius did. The rest—” Leliana looked at her briefly with a tight, complicated expression, before looking ahead again as they walked. “None of us can begin to imagine what you experienced there. It would be insulting to try.”

“There are no words for what it was,” she replied, in a hollow tone. “Everything was gone, or dead, or dying. There was no hope for anything.”

The tight silence which followed her statement was a reminder of why she'd chosen to keep her silence.

What could they say to that? How could they begin to grasp the gravity of it, without having experienced it as she had?

The other Leliana had been right; this was all pretend to them. Something that had been undone, something which would never be — if they were vigilant. But to other version of the world, to its people, and to herself, it was real. And now a part of her would always be there, in that future that no longer existed. The horror of it, and the grief, had taken something from her which could never be returned.

“It was real,” Tephra echoed, thinking of the other Spymaster. She gave a sharp, short sigh, “And you never broke, no matter what they did to you. Not once. Not even at the end.”

Leliana's sudden grip on her shoulder brought her to a stop. The Spymaster fixed her with an intense look, as she said, “What happened there in that dark future is yours alone, and nothing anyone can say will make it any easier to carry, but I will do everything in my power ensure that future never comes.”

“As will I,” Tephra assured.

 

———

 

He'd come to observe the state of the Breach, as well as to clear mind and prepare himself for what needed to be done — to prepare himself for the possibility of another failure.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was neither whole nor shattered in the Fade, but rather a shifting collection of memories reflected by the spirits who lingered there. Bodies twisted beyond recognition littered the ruins, lit like torches by green fire.

Solas was not surprised to find that spirits had begun to gather there, despite the danger. He was surprised, however, to find Wisdom there. It was accompanied by a handful of other rare spirits — Curiosity and Learning, Altruism and Epiphany.

Shock surged through him; he had not seen spirits of their kind in a very long time.

They were young and did not carry the same gravity of knowledge and experience as his friend did, but their presence alone heartened him. It made the possibility of restoring the world to its former wholeness seem that much more attainable — and that much more urgent.

They deserved a world they could flourish in, and not be doomed to being tainted and twisted beyond their purpose.

He had to act, or risk losing what remained of their kind to the Breach, and to the ruin of this world.

“We have come to witness what shall unfold,” Wisdom informed.

“Try not linger too close, my friend,” Solas entreated. “It isn't safe, not even if we manage to seal it, and I could not bear to lose you as well.”

Wisdom flickered with amusement, “You have survived the loss of far more than one spirit, Solas. What is one spirit, to the whole of the world itself?”

Solas sighed. Such sentiments were were often lost on Wisdom, though he was certain it was purposefully obtuse at times simply to amuse itself by vexing him.

“There is always the potential for loss, even if the Breach is closed,” the spirit reminded.

“Fair enough,” he conceded.

Wisdom cocked its head and regarded him with curiosity, as it stated, “You have not looked into her dreams of what transpired in Redcliffe.”

“There is no need. I've heard what matters most — what must be avoided at all costs. The rest has been unmade, and no longer matters,” Solas replied, mildly annoyed. “What were you doing in her dreams?”

“She is very bright — brighter than the Breach. Many seek her in the dreaming,” Curiosity informed in a lilting tone. “Though all she dreams of is loss. Perhaps she will dream of other things soon.”

He'd been on guard against accidental trespasses since the last time he had found himself in her dreaming. The Anchor had an unfortunate gravity in the Fade, which pulled at him no matter how far he kept himself from the borders of her dreams. It felt especially prudent after the last one, which had been so devastatingly personal. He could only imagine how invasive it would seem to her, and how much it would anger her, never mind how unwilling an observer he'd been. Yet, her grief and her tenacity in the face of it — to go living, even alone — had affected him more than he care to admit.

To be as old as he was — to be _what_ he was — and to be so thrown by something so mortal. Real, but incomplete, and not one of his people.

And that sentiment alone filled him with a sudden shame, as he thought of one of their first true conversations.

What did he gain, in drawing those lines — in drawing such distinctions?

“Only more blood,” Wisdom parroted, offhandedly. “And deeper trenches.”

“I have asked you to not do that,” Solas huffed.

“And I agreed not to, unless I felt it necessary,” Wisdom flickered. “There was more than just ruin there. Are you not curious?”

There was an almost playful edge to Wisdom's question, which he did not appreciate anymore than its persistence.

Solas held his tongue, and turned his attention to the Breach.

It was easier to sense in the Fade, to feel the true weight and gravity of the damage done to the Veil.

Beside him, Wisdom continued to muse. “I have not been in the waking world for some time, but I must admit that it is remarkable that one plane of existence can host such distance, and such proximity. The space between ideals, between earth and sky, between fingertips. Is that what drives you both to and from her — from knowing?”

The spirit canted its head to the side, as it continued, “Or do you suppose that is the precarious nature of her mortality that heightens your fondness for her? That she could so easily be lost to you? You have courted the possibility several times now. Is it the loss of the Anchor that shakes you so, or the loss of her?”

“You presume much, old friend,” he replied, as he ignored the knot wrenching in his gut.

“He thinks of harbors when he looks at her, and all her dreams are of the sea,” Curiosity prattled, entirely to itself.

The spirit smiled, “I _observe_ much, yes.”

“I am not in the mood for this sort of discourse tonight,” Solas sighed. “I came to prepare myself for what must be done.”

“Will you attempt to reclaim your power once the Breach has been closed?” Wisdom asked.

“If I can reclaim my orb — then yes, I will,” he replied, without hesitation.

For all the confidence of his statement, the words rang hollow.

“Have you not sought other paths?”

“There is only one path, my friend. I've had centuries to search for another way — as you should remember well, given how often I've consulted you on the matter,” Solas reminded.

Altruism shifted and flitted to Wisdom's side, as it said, “We do not know your old world as Wisdom does. This is all we've known, and its people are all we have. You may not care for them as we do, but we have watched them struggle and thrive in what ways they may. Does that not have merit? Do they not matter, as well?”

The spirit's words struck at an old wound in him — of having watched what frayed hope he'd had after raising the Veil turn to ash in his hands, and being unable to do anything about it until now. Of having watched the children of his people squander the world they were given — however different it was than what he'd planned — to watch them wither and die, to watch each new generation become paler imitations of what once was.

“It matters, yes,” he replied, a bit too sharply. “But this world is still blighted — still dying. Even if I do nothing, it will die. That is the unavoidable truth of this world. The Veil has already become strained beyond its ability to hold back the Fade; it has been fraying for centuries now. It will not hold indefinitely. It was never meant to. Even without the Breach precipitating events and forcing my hand, the Veil will still fall. And the _beings_ which inhabit this world are just as broken. They aren't whole. They aren't—”

The thought of her came unbidden, and so sharply that he'd nearly summoned her visage to shape itself in the Fade beside him. It panicked his thoughts, and confused his resolve.

_Not real; not his people._

He had clung to that for so long now, that the possibility of being wrong left him rudderless and reeling.

He could no longer fool himself — let alone any of them — otherwise.

Wisdom regarded him silently, before remarking, “You are still laboring under the illusion that nothing seems real until it touches you.”

He could have laughed at the absolute truth of it, and the absolute tragedy of it.

Hadn't he written her off, in the beginning? Even after her curious statements and observations had piqued his interest, she had still been an oddity at best.

And then, that night in the Crossroads, she had touched him.

One touch and she had laid waste to all of his stubborn, prideful walls which had kept him so neatly held apart from this world and its people.

Wisdom continued, “How can you know what they truly are when you remain closed off to this world and its people? Truth is still truth, even when you fear what it might mean.”

“Even if she's real — even if they all are, it can't change what must be done,” he replied.

The weight of it was the same, in the dreaming and the waking world.

“Even if it changes nothing, do they not deserve at least recognition as beings which matter?” Wisdom chided.

“Of course they do,” Solas conceded.

_Of course she does._

A sudden hand at his shoulder brought him swiftly out of the dreaming, and back into the heaviness of the waking world.

“Show time, Chuckles,” Varric quipped, almost cheerfully. “You're not going to want to miss this.”

He'd been among the first to arrive, after the Ambassador tracked him down and informed him of the impending meeting. Given the haste of its arrangement, he expected that their departure for the Breach would be just as abrupt. He had taken advantage of the small window of time to slip into the dreaming and assess the state of the Breach on the other side, as he did not know if he would have another chance before the Herald's attempt to close it, and he did not want any further surprises.

A quick survey of the tavern confirmed that all the Herald's companions and advisors had arrived; only the Spymaster was absent. Most of them clustered around a single dining table, where a map of the Frostbacks was laid out. There were scattered conversations and arguments, but their sudden silence sent his gaze following theirs to the entrance of the tavern.

Leliana had gone to retrieve to the Herald; having done that, she wasted no time rejoining the other advisors. The Herald, however, lingered at the door as though she were considering fleeing.

The oversized coat she wore served only to make her seem smaller, and was still bloodied from a world that no longer existed. She was disheveled and dirty — Had she been digging? — and the rosy flush around her dark eyes seemed exaggerated in the dim tavern lighting, and compounded by lack of sleep. And despite her practiced impassivity, she was still visibly haunted by what she'd seen there.

“Maker's breath,” Blackwall cursed under his breath.

Solas hadn't had much time to consider the newly-joined companion — a Grey Warden, much to his exasperation — yet, he felt an odd amusement at the man's reaction. It had been Cassandra who'd done the work in recruiting the man, as Lavellan had spent much of the return trip in the wagon with her Tevinter companion.

Drinking, he assumed, and sharing in whatever troubled her so of that aborted future.

This was likely his first good look at the Herald of Andraste.

Amidst all the rumors and speculation, the man had likely expected someone more presentable, some befitting their Andraste's favor. Anything but what stood in the doorway of the tavern — a half-drunk Dalish woman, reeking of elfroot and mead.

Not quite what most Andrastians would expect of their so-called savior, he expected.

Solas smiled to himself as he remembered many such similar reactions from those who sought the shelter of Fen'Harel — how they had expected some fierce amalgam of myth and rumor, only to find simply himself.

“Herald, apologies for the haste of this meeting, but you understand the gravity of the situation more than anyone here,” the Commander said.

Her grip tensed on the bottle of mead she was carrying as she took a slow, steadying breath. Exhaling, she said, “No matter — let's begin.”

 

———

 

She did not know where to sit.

Would it be rude to sit at one of the unoccupied tables, and simply watch them from a distance? Or perhaps she could pull a chair from the corner, and simply sit adjacent from them, without having to be near enough to—

The thought of their dead bodies, ravaged by the demons and thrown lifelessly to floor, and the arrow bursting out through Leliana's chest — her shock and pain and defiance — mere moments before being torn back through time, to here, to them — not dead, alive now, but who could say what could still come? The Elder One remained, could come for them still, for her, for—

Her heart was pounding in her chest when Varric caught her eye with a tilt of his head and an easy smile; the chair beside him had been left intentionally vacant.

_Stop being weak._

Tephra moved abruptly toward a vacant table, to snag an extra bottle of mead, before going to sit by her dwarven companion.

The others were arguing over travel routes as Varric leaned close and asked, “You want to talk about it?”

However much she appreciated his concern, the gentleness of his tone raked at the rawness of her grief. Her head was still spinning from the elfroot, and the sight of the food laid out on the table turned her stomach. “Not particularly,” she replied.

Varric offered her a tight smile, “Perhaps later, yeah?”

He heaved a sigh, as he turned his attention back to the scattering of paperwork before him. Notes, she expected, for whatever story he was currently working on. “At least you came back to us,” Varric remarked, quietly.

The loss was still raw inside of her, still _real_ — but so was he.

Still real — still here.

It took considerable effort to keep the pain from her face as she thought of the other version of him.

Tephra set down her mead and reached for the dwarf's face. His surprise was almost amusing as she cupped his broad face between her hands as she drew him into a brief, tight hug.

When she pulled away, he fixed her with a bewildered smile, “What was that for?”

“Because I promised,” she replied, simply.

Varric gave a bewildered laugh, “If you say so.”

With that, he turned his attention back to his work — much to her relief.

As she downed more mead, her attention shifted to the others.

They had been arguing when she first arrived, and despite the brief interruption of her arrival, they continued to do so. She had the distinct feeling that this had been going on well before Leliana came looking for her.

Perhaps the Spymaster had expected that her presence would calm the situation; it was a shame that it hadn't.

“I've often wondered what the average man thinks about mage freedom,” Dorian mused, as he eyed the newly recruited Grey Warden sitting opposite of him.

He was a severe-looking man, with an outrageous beard obscuring much of his face. “If you really cared, you could ask,” he replied, in a flat tone. “Oh — but wait. That would involve talking to a dirty commoner like me.”

Dorian gave a short bark of laughter, before snarking, “True! So much for that.”

Tephra took a long drink of mead; she wasn't drunk enough for this. Not nearly enough.

“All I know is if what they're saying is true, that word of what happened in Redcliffe had better not spread,” the Grey Warden grumbled.

“Oh, this should be good,” Dorian replied, amused. “Do go on.”

Blackwall huffed, “Make light of it all you want, but your kind won't be any better off if people know mages can change the future.”

“Our kind, he says,” Dorian parroted to Vivienne. “You see how he separated us from _people_.”

“I do have ears, my dear,” Vivienne assured.

“That's not what I meant, and you know it,” Blackwall snapped.

“People will use any excuse to hate us, I assure you of that,” Dorian countered.

“Then you should not give them more,” Blackwall said.

Dorian threw his hands up in exasperation, “Did everyone act like this when the sword was invented? “Oh, my blushing butt cheeks! Round up everyone who can use these pointy things and lock them away!””

“It is not the same thing and you know it,” the Grey Warden sighed.

Sera piped up with a mouthful of roasted potatoes, “Point is, don't shove your magic where it's not wanted.”

Dorian turned and gave Madame de Fer a droll look, “How clumsy of us. We really should be thoughtful as to where we shove our spells.”

Blackwall was clearly done dealing with Dorian. He shifted in his seat to address Solas, “They say you're a dreamer mage — have you seen anything of its like in the Fade? What happened in Redcliffe.”

“The distortion of time?” Solas mused, “I have seen magic accomplish many wondrous things, but no — that is new.”

“Magic has little place in a war between men,” Blackwall declared. “A sword is honest, and fair.”

“Death by any means is rarely fair,” Solas quipped. “Many mages are brutes — they see nothing more than a larger ball of fire — a more efficient way to kill their enemies. But those with imagination? Those who use war to push the limits of the possible? Wonderful — if terrible — things.”

Tephra's stomach gave a sickening lurch.

She had seen what such magic could do, and there was nothing wondrous about it.

She polished off her mead, and reach for the other. She ignored the not-so-discreet glance of worry from Varric as she popped the cork, and took a long drink.

If he'd seen what she had — if he had done what she had to do — he would be drinking too.

“I wish the Chantry could better enforce restrictions against its use,” Blackwall replied.

“Such restrictions never hold,” Solas remarked. “Any who want victory will find some reason their cause merits exception. Every man with a cause believes their means justifies the end. The best we can do is ensure the world still stands when this fight ends.”

Dorian turned his attention to her, “So, the Inquisition supports free mages. What's next? Elves running Halamshiral? Cows milking farmers?”

“Yes, it would be rather ridiculous for us to run the city we built, wouldn't it?” Tephra remarked. There was an edge to her tone despite her humor.

“I'm not mocking you, not at all,” he assured, warmly. “On the contrary — I heartily approve.”

“Much to all of our astonishment, of course, that a Tevinter magister would approve of such reckless behavior,” Vivienne chimed in, as she busied herself with pouring herself a glass of wine.

“ _Altus_ , my dear,” Dorian corrected, rather cheerfully.

“Of course, darling. My mistake.”

Turning back to Tephra, he continued, “I do wonder, though, if you've considered what this support of yours will do. For mages in general, I mean. The Inquisition is seen as an authority. You've given southern mages license to... well, be like mages back home.”

“If they're anything like you, then I heartily approve,” she replied, parroting his previous sentiment.

Madame de Fer gave a weary sigh, and despite Solas's silence, she could feel the disapproval rolling off of him in waves. Though she was certain it was more toward Dorian himself, than to her flattery of him.

Dorian gave a laugh, “There aren't many mages back home like me.”

“A pity,” she mused. “I'd rather enjoy more of you.”

The Commander spoke up over Dorian's laughter, “We do, in fact, have more of him, Herald. And more to come still, as refugees continue to seek shelter within our organization. We're already struggling to meet the needs of so many, as well as our soldiers. Setting the mages loose amongst our ranks with no oversight only further compounds this.” He fixed her with a stern — if curious — frown as he asked, “What were you thinking, in granting the rebels full freedom and alliance with the Inquisition?”

The tension in the room was proof enough that many of her companions did not approve of her decision. The only ones who openly approved were Dorian, and of course Solas.

She regarded the Commander with a sharp frown as the mead burned in her belly. “Because they're people,” she replied, flatly. “They deserve the same respect as any of us.”

“This isn't about respect,” the Commander argued. “Even the strongest mages can be overcome by demons in conditions like these.”

“Enough! None of us were there,” Cassandra cut in. “We cannot afford to second-guess our people. The sole point of the Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid and that was accomplished.”

Leliana broke her silent observation of the discussion, as she advised, “We should look into the things the Herald saw in this dark future. The assassination of Empress Celene — a demon army? These are troubling things which must be dealt with.”

“If you ask me, it sounds rather much like something a Tevinter cult might do,” Dorian said. “Orlais falls, the Imperium rises — chaos for everyone.”

Cassandra gave an impatient huff, “We are gathered to discuss the Breach — everything else can wait.”

“Yes,” Cullen agreed. “As I've said, our soldiers have been briefed on this new alliance and stand prepared for what must be done.”

Tephra's attention shifted to the Commander as he spoke, and she could not help but recall the sight of him in the Redcliffe castle courtyard.

She could still see him there — trapped in the tainted lyrium growths, left to a lingering, miserable death. She could still see the unspoken plea in his eyes for a merciful release, which Leliana had given him without hesitation. And the torrent of red rushing out of his throat in eager spurts — as though death could not come quickly enough for him.

When Cullen took notice of her stare, he briefly fumbled over his words. His eyelids fluttered briefly before his gaze skipped away. He cleared his throat, and continued, “We will aid in whatever means we can to assist the transport of our people to the temple without incident, and to safeguard them in the event of an attack, or the presence of demons.”

As the tense discussion moved on without her, she felt the weight of Solas's gaze. When she turned to meet it, she couldn't subdue the flush of her cheeks or the clamor of her emotions.

Once again, she found herself unable to get a clear read on his expression, on whether he approved or disapproved of her statements. But there was a heaviness in gaze that was becoming increasingly familiar. Despite his intensity on many subjects, this was something far more controlled and tightly reigned in — careful, and guarded.

Though had she not experienced what she had in that dark future, she doubted that she'd ever have the hubris to take it for attraction. It still floored her to remember how affected he'd been by her, and the way he'd shook in her arms when she held him — when she kissed him.

Is that what she saw now, shuttered away behind the polite mask he wore? Or had his affections simply been a manifestation of loneliness in that horrible future, compounded by grief and horror — simply a bright spot to hold onto in the darkness, to ward off madness?

Or was it something more?

Solas held her gaze for a staggered moment, before his attention shifted back to the discussion continuing on around them. The only thing that betrayed his calm demeanor was the brief tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Tephra concealed her own smile by taking a long drink from her mead; she hoped the flush creeping up her face could be passed off as the result having drunk a bit too much.

Teasing him had become a pleasing distraction from all the Herald nonsense, but it had begun to become something more. In truth, she had not been seeking anything from him, beyond their tenuous companionship, but the teasing — the flirtations — had begun to gain a gravity all its own.

It didn't help that he was so terribly easily to flirt with, never mind how easily flustered he became if she so much as touched him.

But knowing how he'd felt in that dark future had changed everything; there was no going back to empty flirtations. She couldn't bear the thought of him ever believing that she thought so little of him, or his emotions, to think that he was simply a source of amusement and distraction for her.

However it had been left unaddressed between them, the attraction had become painfully obvious — and mutual. That night in the fishing town on the Storm Coast had robbed either of them of any further pretense otherwise.

Though understandably, he had not acted so boldly with her since.

She was the “Herald of Andraste”, after all.

The mark, and the position she'd been given in the Inquisition, set her apart from all of them. And with the way people acted around her, the way her advisors and companions deferred to her — it made her painfully aware of her position of power, especially over him. He was simply an apostate who'd gotten caught up in all of this mess; she could see why he would be hesitant about seeking anything more than companionship with her.

Yet, it was the fact that he treated her as simply herself that drew her to him. all his wealth of knowledge aside — which was more than enough to pique her interest — it was the fact that she could just be herself with him that made her seek him out so often, made her want—

Tephra sighed sharply through her nose, and reached for her mead.

It would serve nothing to seek out such a impractical thing in the midst of all this chaos, and she was well out of the frivolous years of her girlhood.

Why start something with him, if she was just going to be leaving in the end?

Once the Breach was sealed, she fully intended to go back to her clan. It would be on the humans to clean up their own mess with the Chantry, and the Circles, and all the other things they'd broken or neglected.

Besides, all her flings had been brief, fleeting things that committed nothing of herself but the fervor of a moment, or a week, or a summer. She had never let herself care enough to feel the absence or the loss of another, not since she was a child. It was a purposeful avoidance, rooted in self-preservation.

But with _him_ —

She knew with absolute clarity that nothing with him would be frivolous, or fleeting. And if Redcliffe had taught her anything, it was that she'd come to care about him enough that the loss of him — the _other_ him — had been devastating.

To seek more than the companionship they shared, to take him on as a lover, to open herself up to caring about him more deeply — knowing full well that it could lead to such loss — would have been nothing short of madness. Complicated, at best.

Even dangerous, in that he still remained an unknown to her in many ways. He was inconsistent, and at times entirely incomprehensible. There was an absence, a hole — gaping and obvious — eating through his stories, his probing questions, his _self._

How could she begin to grapple with what she couldn't neither pin down, nor hold onto?

The others continued to argue heatedly around her, until Vivienne's voice cut over the rest as she advised, “With so many mages gathered at the Breach, we would do well to bring along what few templars remain to the Inquisition, to ensure protection — for us, as well as them. The risk for possession will be great.”

Solas turned a critical eye to Madame de Fer, “The fact that I, an apostate, have not been enslaved by demons must be quite vexing, Enchanter.”

The derisive edge of his tone surprised her; what in the world had the Madame done to provoke such ire in him?

Tephra glanced between them with tense curiosity, as the mead she held idled against her lips, briefly forgotten.

Vivienne gave a sharp, short laugh, “Not at all, darling. You clearly have an exceptional gift for the Fade.”

“You flatter me,” he replied, in a droll tone.

“I'm far more surprised you haven't been murdered by terrified villagers wielding pitchforks,” she mused, with a biting edge to her words.

The crease between Solas's brow furrowed, as he said, “Yes, packing all the mages into towers and threatening them with Templars certainly kept them safe.”

“It did,” Vivienne replied, with conviction. She had done well in not being riled by Solas's words — until now. Her anger was palpable as she continued, “That is, until a rogue apostate destroyed Kirkwall's Chantry and started a fight most mages did not want.”

Tephra knew of the man who'd blown up the Kirkwall chantry. For all the distance her people kept from human affairs, it was still prudent to remain informed of such significant events.

Beside her, Varric had been taking notes at a furious pace, but the mention of the Kirkwall incident had stayed his hand. From what little she'd heard him speak of this man — _Anders_ — she'd gotten the impression that the dwarf's opinions of him were complicated at best, given that the mage was his best friend's lover.

As the others argued around him, Varric simply sighed to himself and continued to write.

“Your system produced him. Clearly your Circles are flawed,” Solas stated, in a clipped tone.

“And the Circles have also produced many respectable figures in history,” Vivienne countered. “The Hero of Fereldan is a notably recent one.”

“Your Circle was a tightly clamped lid on a boiling pot,” Solas informed. “It held for a while, and, unless you looked inside, it all seemed fine. And everyone feigned surprise when it finally burst. He did what anyone might do for the suffering of their people, if pushed far enough.”

There was a stillness to his anger — like the deceptive calm before a storm.

It was fascinating to watch, yet she was glad that she had not personally provoked him to this degree.

“Do stop trying to justify his actions, my dear,” Vivienne warned. “It's beginning to sound dangerously like praise. He is a murderer and an abomination, and little else. His atrocity served nothing but to bring about more atrocity.”

The woman's words were a sucker punch to her gut.

If killing a few dozen clerics and civilians made the man such a terrible thing, what did killing a world make her?

Tephra's gaze darted away from them, as she turned in her seat and resumed her drinking.

Inebriation was far more inviting than confronting that.

When Varric spoke up, his anger surprised her.

Hardly anything ever got to him, beyond terrible weather and soggy socks, or having to camp in place of sleeping in inns.

“Anders was just a man — a mage who suffered beneath the weight of your corrupt system,” Varric cut in, sharply. “It could have been any of the countless people who've suffered and died at the hands of Templar mercy to have been possessed and driven to that extreme.” He gave an incredulous laugh, as he continued, “Maker's balls, it was a _spirit of Justice_ itself that became so enraged by the abuses of the Chantry that it could not stay silent and idle a single moment longer in the Fade.”

“Varric, dear, are you really suggesting that demon-possessed mage was anything less than a terrorist?”

Varric threw his hands up in frustration, before sinking back into his chair in angry silence.

“The truth is that there is no system which serves to protect us better than what the Chantry has done for centuries,” Vivienne continued. “There is always a place for reform, but violence is rarely the tool to achieve such. His barbaric actions only served to set back any progression we might have built upon on the work of our predecessors, as well as leading to an abject breakdown in negotiations. Had the mages conducted themselves in a civil manner after Anders's abominable acts against the Chantry, rather than resorting to civil war—”

“Ah, yes,” Solas interjected, flatly. “Nearly a millennia of discourse and peaceful protest has gotten them so far — and what are the fruits of their labor? Anti-magic theology, and a militarized Templar order. The Rite of Tranquility, of course, and no less than nineteen Circle annulments.”

“Between the threat of being made Tranquil or killed by ignorant peasants, surely joining a Circle would be preferable in most situations,” Dorian mused. “I may know little of the Southern Circles, but I cannot imagine the abuses to be so widespread. And even occasional ill-treatment and a few freedoms lost is preferable to dying. Death is so terribly final, you see — and _boring_.”

This is what the Spymaster had brought her here for? To watch the mages snipe at each other over things she knew too little about to intervene over, or to mediate?

_What a shit show this is._

Her head a was beginning to throb, and her pulse was pounding in her ears.

Solas canted his head toward Dorian, as he mocked, “A helpful contribution, of course — the timeless argument which lends itself only in perpetuating the status quo and complicity through inaction. I have seen much of the history of this world; not once has the argument of lesser evilism served to bring about true advancement. It is simply a political farce used to fool those without choice into thinking that they do.”

“They do have a choice,” the Commander insisted. “The system serves—”

“A small portion of humans who have elevated themselves above all the rest,” Tephra cut him off in a clipped tone. “It's easy for you to forget the system — you're human. It's your system. I don't have that freedom. I'm constantly reminded of all the ways this system robs my people, traps my people — _kills_ us. For that, the mages have nothing but my compassion.”

“You're not a mage,” the Commander reminded, wearily.

“I am an elf,” she reminded him, sharply. “I know much of the systems your people put in place against us, as well as the mages—there's little difference between the two in the end, but death and displacement. Though do go on and parse the subtleties between Exalted Marches and Circle Annulments.”

Void take them, she did not need to be drawn into this nonsense, yet she was compelled to continue.

“This is not—” Cullen gave a sharp sigh, clearly flustered. “We're here to address the Breach, not — Maker's breath.”

“The system serves to protect mages from the risk of possession,” Cassandra stated. “In that, it had prevented far more possessions than it would have without the Circles.”

“As there's absolutely no proof that summoning demons to the same location — over centuries, no less — for Harrowings _doesn't_ weaken the Veil,” Dorian remarked. “Nor does stuffing masses of frightened, emotionally compromised mages into one tiny tower, for that matter.”

“Dealing with demons manifesting in one location is far easier to manage than demons manifesting in multiple locations,” Cullen insisted. “The Templars have proven their effectiveness—”

Dorian cut him off with a sharp laugh.

“What would you suggest, then?” the Commander demanded.

“Something with less misery and death?” Varric suggested, helpfully.

Cullen gave a sharp sigh, as he said, “As you are quite happy to deride that particular section of our soldiers, I would like to remind you all that the Templars amongst us defected from the Chantry to serve the Inquisition. Whatever any one man among us may or may have not done, we are whole-heartedly committed to following a better path. If what the rebels have done can be set aside, then it should be so for our Templar soldiers. We can move forward together. Treating them as though they're somehow worse than—”

Varric cut the man off with a derisive snort, as he resumed his fitful note-taking, “As if the actions of the mages are in anyway comparable to what the Templars have been doing to them for centuries.”

The Commander made a frustrated noise as he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

It made her angry to hear the Commander attempt to equate the systemic abuse of the mages, to what the Templars received in retaliation when they'd been pushed too far.

The two were simply incomparable.

“The Templars are not the victims in this,” Tephra snapped. “They are endowed by the Chantry with protections and a position of power not afforded to anyone else in Thedas. And for it, they act with impunity to commit abuses against those they're charged with safekeeping — and I'm not just speaking of mages on that.”

The Commander could barely meet her gaze, “Those men were—”

She barreled on over him angrily, “The power imbalance between the Chantry and between mages is such that compromise has never been an option. When one group has complete power over another, it is impossible to negotiate in good faith.”

Leliana spoke up in agreement, “I've known mages. Some of them were better people than me. And yet I'm free and they're not. It's not right.”

It was a measured statement, but Tephra was grateful for the support.

“The Chantry gains nothing but the loss and invalidation of its entire power base if it concedes anything to the mages,” Solas remarked. “There is no incentive on their part to make concessions or reforms to improve the lives of mages, and massive pressure to maintain the status quo. The Templars did not walk out on the Chantry because of what happened in Kirkwall; they defected when they felt the Divine was too sympathetic to the mages.”

“We Dalish do not fetter our mages, nor fear them,” Tephra informed. “The trained mages teach the younger ones all that they need, and the clan supports them. We see them as gifts, not burdens, and the best of them are the ones who lead us all.”

Madame de Fer fixed her with a curious look, as she mused, “Such that your people throw away your excess _gifts_ , do you not?”

_Ah, of course._

“Yes, I've heard of this as well,” Dorian agreed. “Though I suppose little ones dying in the woods is a far cry kinder than what the Templars do.”

There was a sudden ringing in her ears as her gut gave a sick twist at Dorian's words.

He couldn't have known how his words would have affected her — he was speaking of hypotheticals, not the truth of her own childhood — which had nothing to do with mages or exile of any sort.

Still, anger coiled tightly inside of her at their presumption to speak on things they had no experience or true knowledge of, only rumors purposefully spread by her own people to ward off human intervention.

“Yes, would you both care to teach me more of what my own people do? In clans you've never set foot in?” Her voice trembled with barely-controlled emotion as she continued, “Do tell me more of Dalish children cast off into the woods and left to die; I'm all ears.”

A tense silence settled between them, broken only by Sera giving an amused snort of laughter. Varric quieted her with a sharp prod of his elbow.

When neither spoke again, she continued, “You humans say many things of us, but truth is rarely so simple. A careful lie can protect many, and keep the Chantry from seeking out our clans. It is one of many tactics we use to keep your people from presuming to intervene in our affairs.”

Dorian shot her an apologetic look, as he asked, “So you don't exile — ah — _send off_ your excess mages, then?”

“Clans will send mages to other clans who are less fortunate, but it's always voluntary.”

_To my knowledge, at least._

She couldn't speak for all of the clans of her people. It was as Kazem had said — with each new generation, time made strangers of them all — but she was far too stubborn to give them any satisfaction that the rumors might be true for some of her people.

She felt suddenly, and acutely, alone amongst them all. Not even the subtle, soft expression which Solas was giving her could soothe it. It made her feel unreasonably defensive and cagey, and reminded her of the precarious nature of her position here. If not for the mark, she doubted she would be so free to voice her opinions so boldly — if at all. At least, not without reprimand or punishment.

“There are fewer and fewer of us born with each year that passes, and one day we'll be no more,” she said, finally. “Our children are precious to us, and we do not cast them out. That is simply a story we tell to keep your Templars away.”

“Thank you for clarifying that subject for us. I would hate to labor under ignorance on such matters,” Vivienne replied, sincerely. Still, the woman was adamant as she continued, “However, if Fiona and her malcontents are joining us as allies, we need to be prepared. Abominations are inevitable. Cullen doesn't have enough templars to handle incidents. Some of the rank and file need to be trained.”

Tephra frowned, “Are you counting yourself among them, as well?”

“Of course I am, my dear,” she admonished, though her tone was gentle. “Every mage who joins the cause is taking a calculated risk, whether they know it or not.”

The woman was right — the closer the mages lingered to the Breach, the higher the risk it was for them. She had been worrying over the matter, even for those she knew were experts in their field, such as her own companions. Even Solas could be at risk in the right conditions.

She thought briefly of the time before, when he'd been distracted enough to let a bandit inflict a nearly-mortal wound. What if it had been a demon, and not just a man?

The outcome could have been far worse.

Still, the thought of more Templars amongst them turned her stomach and filled her throat with the memory of drowning.

“I'm confident that we can handle the mages. There's no need for Templars,” she insisted.

Madame de Fer was undeterred, as she continued, “Have any of these men faced an abomination before, my dear? Have you? The Veil is broken, and the raw power of the Fade rushes out like floodwaters through a shattered levee. In ordinary places where the Veil is weak, magic is much more likely to attract demons. And if demons can walk our world with no blood magic to summon them, how safe do you think our “allies” are? There has never been a greater threat to mages than the Breach. Until it is closed, no one is safe.”

There was no true argument she could give to that, beyond her own personal prejudice against the men who'd mistreated her.

“Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous, as you well know.” Vivienne's gaze dropped briefly to Tephra's hands, half-concealed in the sleeves of her coat, as she added, “Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned.”

Her hands twitched, as she replied, “It wasn't mages who lit that fire.”

Vivienne regarded her with a measured look, brows furrowing, as she asked, “Do you know how young mages are found? Outside of your clans, of course.”

“No, I don't,” she replied, truthfully.

“Of course you don't, my dear,” Vivienne chided. The emotion was clear in her tone as she continued, edged with the same defensiveness that Tephra had felt speaking of her own clan's experiences, “A little girl has a nightmare, and in her sleep, she burns her house down. A teenage boy has a fit, and lightning rips his mother to pieces. Imagine your own childhood and what would have happened if the darkest corner of your heart had a will of its own.”

Her mind folded back over the memories of that night her parents died, and the day she lost her brother.

_I could have saved them._

She could have torn through the bandits who'd killed her parents, or stopped the spider from killing her halla. She could have held on to him longer, she could have—

It was a naive thing to think — a child's wish, and nothing more. Her father's magic had not saved neither him, nor her mother from dying. What could a child have done? And even if she had magic when her brother had died, who would have taught her the spell that could have saved him?

It was a useless, futile thing to think of, and it served nothing but to dredge up old griefs.

“People don't learn the fear of magic at Chantry services, my dear,” Vivienne continued. “They learn it from us.”

Reeling from memories best left to the dark corners of her mind, Tephra quickly turned her attention back to Madame de Fer and assured, “I want to do right by them, whatever that means.”

All that betrayed Vivienne's surprise was the subtle rise and furrow of her brow.

“I want them treated kindly, and fair. I would not have the abuses of the Circles repeated here,” Tephra continued. “You know what works, you know how to teach them to be safe. Appoint Keepers—”

She caught herself reverting to what she knew — the Dalish way — and stopped herself. Shifting, she corrected herself, “ _Teachers_. Mentors. People who understand their confusion and fear, and can teach them to channel it safely. If possession happens, then we will address it how we must, but I won't have them treated as if they're already guilty. Will you help me keep them safe — from others, as well as themselves?”

“Of course I will, my dear,” Vivienne replied, gently.

Solas gave a short, bitter laugh, which she met with a sharp look.

“I don't see you offering to teach them how to be safe,” she admonished.

“Do forgive my poor manners, Herald,” he replied in a clipped tone.

Turning back to Vivienne, Tephra said, “You're right, of course — untrained mages can be a danger to themselves. On that, we agree, but the Templars are a poor solution.”

“They are men, and all men are flawed,” Vivienne mused, with lilting humor. “That some fail does not mean that none should try. The fact remains that there is no cure for an abomination except death. Someone must strike the killing blow. Who shall lower the blade if not a templar?”

The Madame's question reignited the bickering — talk of safeguards and curfews and restrictions. As the others began to cut in and speak over each other, the pounding in her head grew louder and began to drown out the chaos of their arguments. Tephra closed her eyes as she leaned the side of her head against her palm, resting her elbow on the table.

“—Even with an army of templars gathered beneath the Breach, what do you suppose they could do? Wave their swords at it? Accuse it of being a blood mage?”

“Well, if I may—”

Dorian cut the Commander off, “Yes, what exactly is the average velocity of templar magic suppression? I dare say it's less than the many miles up to the Breach.”

“Well, the Inquisition does have catapults,” Varric chimed in, with dark amusement.

Their voices seemed to clamor for priority, cresting and crashing in pounding waves against her eardrums. Pain lanced behind her eyes, sharp enough to bring her suddenly to her feet. Anger and frustration was boiling in her gut as she put a hand to the table to catch herself, as she laid her other hand over her eyes.

_All this fucking arguing is useless._

The mark in her hand flared to life, as though reacting to the sudden spike in her emotions. Bright verdant energy crackled up her arm, spitting and arcing in a visual display of the anger vibrating through her body.

The room around her was suddenly, blissfully silent.

When the pain passed, she dropped her hand to her side and said, “If all you mean to do is fight amongst yourselves like children, then none of you need me here for that.”

“We may all have differing views on these matters, my dear, but they will need to be addressed eventually,” Vivienne advised. “The rebel mages are yours now — their fate and welfare rests in your hands.”

“ _Mine?_ I'm not the Inquisition, I'm just—”

_Just an elf who has no idea what the fuck she's doing._

Couldn't they see that? Or did it amuse them to pretend she were capable of leading anything, of making these decisions?

“Herald, we need to address this issue. The mages will need oversight, not just for the Breach, but for after as well,” the Commander continued on, to her growing horror. “Perhaps we can begin training those in our ranks to serve as unofficial templars, as well as devise restrictions—”

Her anger resurfaced, as she interrupted him sharply, “You do realize the irony of asking an elf to subjugate anyone, right? As though I would — in any way or context — be okay with shackling them, as my own people have been for generations beyond counting?”

It did not surprise her that few of them would meet her gaze after such a statement.

“What's the point of asking my opinion on all these things if you're not going to bother listening, or if you're just going to talk down to me and suggest something else?” Tephra gave a bitter laugh, “Not that it truly matters. Once the Breach is closed, you don't need me anymore and the lot of you can go back to bickering like children.” She downed the rest of her mead, before adding, “As for me, I'm going back to my clan.”

There was an exchange of looks between her companions and advisors which made the bottom fall out of her stomach. She felt what small vestige of hope she'd been clinging to for a return to normalcy turn to ash in her hands.

_No, I was—_

The soft look that Vivienne gave her was a dagger to Tephra's gut, as the woman gently asked, “Do you honestly believe this ends at the Breach, my dear?”

_I was going to go back._

Tephra sank back into her chair in numb silence, and reached for another bottle of mead. The reality of her situation cut through everything, even the haze of inebriation. When Varric moved it out of her reach, she turned a sharp frown on him, but her anger died a swift death in the face of his concern.

Cassandra followed with, “Even when the Breach is closed, you will still be the Herald — and with that, you are our hope for peace. For stabilization. There is still so much conflict that will remain even if the Breach is closed. You may not believe, Herald, but many of us do. We need it; we need _you_.”

She gave a faltering laugh, brief and raw and anything but amused.

“You mean _this_ ,” Tephra gestured at the Seeker with her sparking hand. “All you need is the mark, not the knife-ear it happens to be attached to.”

She was suddenly and absolutely done with this meeting.

Seething, she held her marked hand out over the table, “If you people want it so terribly much, you're welcome to try taking it.”

When none of them moved, nor deigned to respond, she prompted, “No? Not even going to try? Perhaps a more direct method, then.”

Tephra stalked around the table toward the Commander. When she reached for his sword belt, he stiffened and took a step back.

Cullen raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, and urged, “Herald, this isn't necessary—”

She yanked the man's sword out of its sheathe — it was far heavier than she anticipated — and threw it down onto the table.

Gesturing at the blade, her voice cracked like a whip as she snapped, “Any who wishes to take the mark from me is welcome to it.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and none of them would meet her challenging gaze, but for Solas. He simply watched her with an inscrutable expression that she could not begin to decipher, but it surprised her in its intensity — it reminded her of how he'd looked at her in that dark future, just before the doors had closed behind him, just before the end.

But she could not linger on him, or his ambiguous expressions, not with all of them here. Not with anger burning a hole in her gut, and the burden of this role of Herald crushing the breath out of her lungs.

“No one?” she prompted, impatiently. “Then don't tell me how I'm supposed to protect people! I never asked for this. I don't want it, and I can't give it away. I'm doing the best I fucking can, given the circumstances.”

Their silence was suffocating.

 _This is accomplishing nothing, and all I'm doing is making an ass of myself,_ she thought, bitterly.

Shame and resignation began to set in as she sighed, and looked to Cassandra, “I'm tired.”

“You need your rest,” the Seeker agreed, with a tight expression.

Tephra could not tell if the woman was disappointed with her behavior, or in the opinions she'd expressed, but she was simply too exhausted to care. She was too drained and too stirred up to stay and continue this farce of a meeting any longer.

As she headed for the door, she faltered to a stop at the sight of Blackwall. She swayed unsteadily as she cast her arms out wide and lowered herself in a mocking approximation of a bow, “Welcome to the fucking Inquisition.”

With that, she left them to continue the arguments without her. She swiped a half-empty bottle of mead from the end of the table on her way out.

The Void take them all, she could not deal with this tonight.

Not that mead truly helped; it barely pacified the tumult of her emotions, and did little else but make an ass of her in front of them all.

When she turned a corner, she caught sight of Solas in her peripheral.

It didn't surprise her that he had followed her out.

Tephra continued her journey to the gates, though her pace grew almost languid to allow him to catch up with her. When she reach them, she turned to lean on the stone wall and watch his approach.

When he noticed her careful observation, his pace slowed to a ridiculous near-swagger as he locked his hands behind his back.

“You did well in there,” he remarked, as he came to a stop before her.

Tephra gave an amused huff, “If by well, you mean that I made an ass of myself, then I suppose I did.” Her humor died away into frustration, as she said, “What a waste of time that was.”

“Nothing is wasted if you learn from it.”

What had she learned, beyond how much her companions disagreed with one another?

“They expect me to know what I'm doing, to have the final say on all this — it's absurd,” she replied. “How can I speak for those people when I know nothing of their plight? I'm not qualified for this. All I know is what feels right — that they should be free.”

“No one simply _is_ a leader, Herald. It is an active state — of revision, of becoming — just as any form of learning is. You have time yet to learn from the mages you've allied with — of their history, and their plight — and to find a way to move forward together,” he informed. “It's true that you are ill-equipped, given your ignorance of mage affairs, but you handled yourself well enough despite that. You did not claim to know better solutions, as some might have had simply to placate the majority. You expressed willingness to hear all sides on the matter, which many in a position of power would not have done. Do not rob yourself of that due.”

He was entirely reasonable with commendation, but her head was swimming and all she cared to focus on was the delicate crease in the center of his bottom lip. “Such flattery, Solas.”

“Simply an observation,” he replied, though the smile in his eyes did not escape her notice. “You would know if I meant to flatter you.”

“Careful now,” she chided with amusement. “One might get the impression that you're flirting with me.”

Her gaze dropped briefly, idling at his mouth as she remembered kissing the other him — the one she couldn't save. The other Solas had readily accepted her affections, what small comfort and solace she could give him in that dying world.

She couldn't help but wonder if this Solas — still alive, still here — would, too.

Solas cocked an eyebrow, as he playfully asked, “Only the impression of such? How remiss of me.”

Tephra felt the flush creep up her cheeks as she glanced away, and took a long drink from her mead. The action afforded her a moment to enjoy the sudden stillness which settled between them, which was fraught with a pleasing tension of all the things that needn't be said between them to be made obvious.

“This from the man whose forgotten the name of his first love,” Tephra remarked in a droll tone, as she turned her attention back to him. “I can hardly wait to see what accounts for a real compliment.”

“I never said that it was love — merely youthful passion.”

“Poor girl, lost to history,” she mused, in a mock mournful tone. “Or was she simply less interesting than the Fade?”

“When you reach my age, we can discuss how easily some things are forgotten.” Solas regarded her with amusement, as he added, “And I'll hardly take criticism from one who knows little more of her own people's language than curses.”

“I know more than just curses,” she insisted.

Solas gave a slow smile as he spoke in a long string of unfamiliar Elven. The upward lilt at the end denoted its questioning nature, but the rest was simply lost on her.

_Ass._

And yet, there was always something that stirred in her to hear him speak it, and so well.

A longing, for what she didn't have, for what she had never known — an identity stolen from her before her birth — as well as a deep respect, and a burdening desire—

Tephra cleared her throat, gaze skipping away to avoid the heat of his gaze. “You could say that more slowly, if you pleased,” she remarked flatly, before continuing to drink.

Solas plucked the bottle from her, “More, what?”

She watched him take a long drink from the bottle; he was clearly enjoying himself.

_Insufferable ass._

Well, certainly two could play at this game.

“Felas, Solas,” she entreated in a breathy, suggestive tone. “Felas, sathan.”

It was completely satisfying to watch him choke on the mead.

As Solas hastily wiped the alcohol from his face and tunic, she continued, “Or, if you prefer, shem'el. Though I hardly see the need for haste.”

Before he could compose himself and respond, the medics she'd met with earlier came strolling up to the gates. Their paces slowed to a meander, as both men took in the sight of her and the clearly-flustered apostate.

It amused her to see the oh-so-very-stoic Solas thoroughly disconcerted.

Even his ears had gone red.

Alleras gave a grin as he shuffled past, giving a nod of his head, “Herald.”

However, Kazem looked between them with curious frown and an arched brow, before fixing her with an amused look. He gave a nod of his head in acknowledgement, before following after his companion.

Solas gave an awkward cough, before he asked, “Would you care to walk with me?”

The sudden warmth in his gaze stuttered her breath.

_Very much so._

“If you insist,” she replied in a restrained tone, as she fought the smile threatening to break across her face.

“Though I would like my mead back,” she huffed, as she followed after him.

 

———

 

The further they walked from Haven, the more his head began to swim with anticipation — though for what, precisely, escaped him.

Her teasing pleas still lingered in his mind, tugging at what tenuous hold he still had on his composure. It kept his chest locked tight with the ridiculous notion that perhaps she was entirely serious in her affections, and not simply amusing herself with empty flirtations.

He would not hold it against her if it were merely a passing fancy — a distraction from all that troubled her, and the increasing demands of her position in the Inquisition.

He would gladly give whatever reprieve he could offer her, and expect nothing in return for it.

It was the least he owed her for putting her in this position to begin with.

Despite how taxing the meeting had been for her, he was pleased with how she had asserted herself and spoken her mind. She so often hoarded her wisdom to herself, as though it were a finite source. Yet when she did choose to share it with him, he was so often floored by its breadth, as well as her potential. Even when they disagreed on a subject, she impressed him with her ability to adapt to new information, to revise her own stances — and to defend them when she felt him truly wrong. There was much of this world which lay open to her, to be learned and understood, and if any good were to come of her unfortunate situation, it would be that she would learn from it.

As much it delighted him that she often preferred his company for such things — meandering discussions and heated debates and thoughtful questions — it frustrated him to see others underestimate her. Or worse, when she doubted herself. She deserved recognition and acknowledgement beyond the stolen magic burning in her hand — she deserved to be seen for the remarkable spirit she was.

So it had filled him with a heady sense of pride to watch her stand up to the others and assert herself, to show that side of herself and speak her mind conviction.

And when she'd thrown down the Commander's blade and bid them to take the mark from her, challenging them all to take the position and title from her, when her gaze had shifted to meet his — it had sent a thrill of pleasure rippling through him to see the subtle look of surprise in the dark depths of her eyes. As though she could sense the heat building up from his core, or divine the consuming thoughts he'd had of kissing her.

Even there, in front of them all.

It was entirely out of character for him to be so preoccupied with such ridiculous notions, but she inspired them so easily in him.

He could not help but wonder if the Anchor had altered her in some way, if it had woken some sleeping part of her which dreamt of its true self, of her wholeness which had been denied her from her first breath. He often wondered what she was like before she had acquired the Anchor, but he hadn't the privilege of meeting her before all of this began. As such, he could no longer determine where she ended and the Anchor began, as his magic claimed more and more of her body with each passing day.

“They're right, you know. This would be easier if I was a mage.”

Her words pulled him effectively out of his thoughts and into the present — still walking, following the path along the frozen river.

“You are not entirely without magic,” he reminded. “The mark, as well as your—”

“That doesn't count,” she huffed, impatiently. “It's just a thing I can do. I don't even know how it works, only that it does when I need it.”

How very much she enjoyed parsing such trivial details; though he had to remind himself that she'd been severed from truly knowing magic as he did. It was patience she needed, and guidance.

“As are my spells,” he replied, simply. “There is little difference.”

She gave a delightfully husky laugh, “Little difference? Ah, yes. Blasting people into oblivion and not being seen are _so_ very similar.”

“In truth, they are — both come from the same source,” he informed.

She was quiet for a time as the walked, before she asked, “All magic? Even the mark?”

Solas stumbled, ever so slightly, at the sudden — _fascinating_ — shift of her focus. Still, it was not a subject he wished to speak on — especially its origin.

“It is old magic,” he replied, carefully. “Of that, I am certain.”

“I meant it, earlier,” she said, in a subdued tone. “I would give it away if I could.”

“Just like that?”

“You sound surprised,” she laughed.

“Not many relinquish power so easily once they've attained it, let alone willingly,” Solas replied.

That was a truth so often played out over the long millennia of his life, one he rarely saw a different outcome of. Power was as corruptive as it was seductive, and he could only hope that she had the will to resist it as long as she could.

“I never wanted power,” she replied, as though she divined his thoughts.

It took considerable effort to keep the pride from his face — the smile.

In the beginning, it had surprised him to see her pull away from the power of the Anchor, to reject the position it afforded, as few ever did with power so freely offered. It continued to surprise him that she remained so wary of it, so humble despite it. He could only hope that she continued to do so, to act in the interest of others and not herself, to remain uncorrupted by the lure of power.

And it was fascinating — intoxicating, even — to watch her will tested, time and again, and remain undaunted.

Of all the people that could have received the Anchor — his power — it had been her. He could only imagine at how terribly misused it could have been in another's hand, how further his plans could have been thrown into chaos, how it could have been used to manipulate and exploit the fear of the masses.

With her, it was being used to mitigate the damage caused by him and to protect the innocent.

There was a sort-of redemption in that, in helping her to understand use the Anchor — to stabilize, to protect, to do what good could be done before he inevitably had to—

He did not want to think on that, not now.

Solas cleared his throat, as he said, “Which is why I sleep better at night knowing it is you who carries this power, and not another who might seek to misuse it. I have seen what power has done to those who've had it in the history of our world. Few have ever kept it long without falling to corruption, less so have ever abdicated themselves of such power.”

“Flattery again.”

“Only the unfortunate truth of this world,” Solas remarked. “Much of the misery and ruin that exists today is because some fool with power felt they could make things better by shaping the world to their will.”

It took effort to keep the bitterness from his tone, and to ignore its self-referential nature.

“I'd give it to you,” she mused, thoughtfully. She'd stopped walking to turn and smile at him, as she mused, “Though I expect you'd hate this as much as I do. Or you would disappear off into the Fade and never come back.”

_Or break this world to restore another._

His gut churned, and he found himself turning from the warmth of her smile as he moved past her. She hastened to match his pace as they continued onward through the snow.

If she sensed his unease at all, she politely did not mention it.

He doubted she would offer the Anchor to him so freely if she knew the truth of it — if she knew what surrendering it meant for the world she sought to save.

Even one of his staunchest supporters — and dearest friends — couldn't abide what needed to be done, in the end. Felassan had been of the old world, just as himself, and had been seduced by what he'd found in this one. He hadn't been the first of the immortals to succumb to loneliness, but it had surprised him at the time. Felassan had always been so practical about his missions, and what needed to be done.

Solas hadn't understood how the man had lost himself to such a blighted, cursed world — not until he walked it himself. And even then, it had taken meeting her to truly open his eyes.

He could no longer deny the catastrophe of it — this elegant self-sabotage — nor the crushing truth that she would forsake him, if only she knew.

It was his weight to carry, but soon she would understand — in her own way — the true weight and cost of leadership. Soon she know this isolation as intimately as he did, as it separated her from all those around her, even the closest of her companions.

Perhaps she would understand, then, how duty took everything and left nothing in its wake.

She would understand how they needed her to be strong for them, to be uncompromising in the face of what needed to be done. That she could not risk being weak, could not risk falling apart — not even in the face of horrible choices. That sometimes, there are only lesser and necessary evils, and no other path to take.

The truth was beginning to set in with her — that she could not simply give away the power she'd been bestowed, nor the position. Whatever last hope she'd been clinging to of being done with all of this had been torn away from her, and it only compounded her grief.

Her outburst in the tavern — her outrage — made sense to him.

He had once mourned the loss of his own personal freedom, long ago.

Whatever happened in Redcliffe, in that dark future — he knew that it been beyond anything she could have prepared for. It had wounded her so completely, that she couldn't even bear the company of those she'd grown closest with.

Except him.

That did little to ease his guilt. She deserved better than the company of the man who'd put her on this path— however inadvertently.

Still, abject loneliness made him greedy in the way he hoarded what time she afford him, what small affections.

Perhaps some part of her sensed that he understood — of having to make terrible choices, of having to keep moving forward despite the grief. That he knew what it was to be a leader, to take on that mantle, to be depended on by those who relied on him to make the world better — and to sometimes fail them.

Or perhaps he was simply an old fool, clinging to what small peace he found in her company.

It did not take long to arrive where he'd intended to take her.

Far from Haven, but not far from memory.

Surveying the area, she concluded, “This is where we first met.”

“Not entirely true,” he replied.

“Ah, yes — the prison.” Tephra frowned, “Does it count if I wasn't conscious?”

“A matter of perspective, I suppose.”

“Isn't it always with you?” she teased. “Why are we here?”

“You've expressed your anxiety of the Breach, and in closing it,” he replied.

She gave an incredulous laugh, “Well — yes. I have no idea how I'm even supposed to do it.”

“Which is why I thought a demonstration might ease your mind.”

She quirked an eyebrow, “On how to channel magic?”

“Through the mark, yes,” he confirmed.

Her eyebrows knitted together, “Won't it open a rift?”

“Yes, but you need not fear — I will set wards to prevent spirits from being drawn through while you practice,” he assured her.

“I'm not afraid,” she insisted, and from the humor in her eyes he could sense the truth of it. “Not with you here.”

Her words left him feeling warm and heady, as he busied himself with setting wards. She removed her coat and left it folded on a low stone wall, as she prepared herself.

When he finished, he faced her once more and asked, “Are you ready to begin?”

“As I'll ever be,” she huffed. “Though I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do this.”

Solas straightened, and locked his hands together behind his back. He moved to stand at her back as she faced where the rift had once been, and said, “Magic is not as inscrutable as you might believe it to be. Imagine that your will was simply an extension of yourself — your own arm reaching towards me.”

She offered a dubious — if amused — frown, as she asked, “Just imagine? That's it?”

“Calling forth magic and shaping it is precisely that — the extension one's will — limited only by one's imagination,” Solas replied. “Of course, that is truest in the Fade itself, as it takes more effort to call forth magic here beyond the Veil.”

Tephra mirrored his posture as she straightened herself, and held her hands at the small of her back. She let out a slow breath as she focused; after a long moment of nothing, she gave an awkward laugh as she met his gaze.

“Take your time,” he urged, in a reassuring tone.

He felt the stubborn surge of her will grasping at the magic in her hand, fumbling clumsily until she finally caught hold. The mark flared to life in her hand, crackling and surging around the delicate span of palm.

“Now reach towards me. Not with your arm, but your _will_ ,” he directed.

“I'm trying,” she huffed, as she visibly fought the urge to reach with her marked hand. She steadied herself with a breath, and closed her eyes.

She fumbled at the barrier of herself, at the confines of her body, and reached through the Anchor. Exploratory movements, like fumbling through pitch-darkness for anything solid to grasp onto.

When her mana — her spirit — brushed against his, she shivered and recoiled in surprise.

Solas fought the urge to shudder — for an entirely different reason — as he asked, “Did you feel it?”

She gave a dizzy laugh. “It's—” her eyes searched his, at loss for words to describe the experience, “—it's... so _much_. How do you stand it?”

“I've never known life without magic. It is as natural to me as breathing, or the beat of my own heart,” he replied, with amusement. “Try again.”

She took another steadying breath, and _reached_.

He met her gently, holding back the true breadth of his power, as he did not wish to overwhelm her. He gave just enough to elicit a breathless gasp from her, and the _sound_ of it—

 _Focus_ , he chided himself.

“Now keep hold, and let my magic work through you,” he instructed, as he stepped around her. “Can you feel the seam in the Veil, where it was once torn open?”

She frowned, and bit at her lower lip as she reached to feel at the Veil. Her eyes fluttered open in surprise when she made contact with the sealed rift, and awe brightened her face.

“Very good,” he commended her warmly. “Now focus on opening it. Imagine parting it as you would a curtain — gently.”

With that, she moved her marked hand forward to reach. He watched the careful turn of her palm, as though she were grasping hold of an invisible rope.

He'd stepped far to close to her; he could feel the power of the Anchor rolling off of her in waves. His eyes traced the sleek lines of the nape of her neck, as he advised, “ _Gently_.”

“I heard you the first time, you ass.”

He gave a low laugh, and said nothing more as she worked to to re-open the sealed rift. He focused instead on each tug and pull of her will against his, letting her slip inside himself to coax what mana she needed from him.

The sudden burst of the rift opening sent her staggering back against him.

Solas caught her by the waist long enough to steady her, before putting space between them. He tried to ignore the sudden panic thundering through him as he took a further step back, but she swayed on her feet and once again he caught hold of her. One hand to her waist, the other cupping her arm as she continued to reach for the rift.

The wards held against the sudden press of the Fade, and afforded her the time to gather her wits and close the rift once more.

He knew that it came more easily to her, with the extra power surging through her. Still, she was overcome by the experience, trembling and swaying in his grip.

She laughed — how freely she seemed to do that with him — and leaned heavily against him. She rested her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes as she took deep, steadying breaths.

“Is this how it feels for you all of the time?” she asked. Her voice trembled with awe, and a touch of concern.

His eyes traced the lines of her face and the delicate span of her throat, as he replied, “Not quite.”

She laughed again, almost giddy with the aftershocks of magic still resonating through her bones.

No, this was different — he could feel the press of her life, her _spirit_ , against his own through the connection of the Anchor — it was nearly intimate in how enmeshed they'd become in this act of mana exchange.

He'd long ago accepted the reality of her — of her spirit — but to feel it like this staggered him.

“No, this is—”

What could he say that would neither betray him, nor be a lie?

Evasion and deflection had become distressingly difficult with her, and the thought of giving her truth — even in part, even what little he could risk — a dangerous and thrilling distraction.

Her sudden laugh was a blessed diversion from answering, as she teased, “Too much for you, Solas?”

Not near enough.

“And here I thought I'd be the one overwhelmed by this,” she mused.

As if to accentuate her point, she shifted and began to trace the back of his hand where it rested at her waist.

How had he'd forgotten he was still touching her? How could he leave himself open and vulnerable to—

The soft scrape of her nails at his wrist brought a curse to his lips.

“ _Fenedhis_.”

Another laugh tickled his ears, as she asked, “How do you suppose it works? The mark?”

It was a test of his will to respond to her questions, to do anything but focus on the miracle of her skin against his as she turned her hand beneath his and pressed their palms together.

Words failed him completely; he could only respond in kind, by tracing his fingertips against hers.

“If I were to hazard a guess, I would say its made of the same magic as the Veil,” she mused. “Or the same spell. However that works.”

She could not know how close to the truth she was, and he could neither confirm nor deter her speculation without arousing her suspicion.

He focused instead on touching her — on being touched.

Each time he grew still, she coaxed him back with the gentle stroking of her fingers twining with his. They were calloused from a lifetime of archery and working with her hands, so that even the softest of her touches held an edge which drew sensation out of him in staggering measure.

Even the barest of touches, and he was utterly undone.

Neither of them spoke for an indiscernible amount of time. Minutes, or hours — it was entirely beyond his keeping.

All that mattered was holding her, and the soft trace of her fingertips across his skin.

“This is the first language we learn,” she remarked, softly.

The slow trace of her skin against his drove everything out of his mind, distracting him entirely from her words.

Had he missed something she'd said? When had the subject turned to languages?

Solas cleared his throat, as he scrambled to follow her conversational path, “Which is?”

Tephra made a sound of amusement, “ _This_.” After a moment, she clarified, “Touch.”

She dragged her nails from the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers in a slow, agonizing emphasis.

“It's the first thing we learn when we come into this world,” she continued. “They say babies die without it. Maybe we do, too — in a way.”

He watched her turn his hand in hers, and the soft expression which crossed her face as she watched the tremble in his hand. She craned her neck to look up over her shoulder at him, her brows knitting tightly together as she asked, “Has it been very long since someone touched you like this, Solas?”

Every nerve ending in his body was firing, panicking at possibility, bursting into want — into need.

When she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, to better look at him, her body brushed his in a manner that was entirely accidental — only the briefest collision of her rear to his hips, and her shoulders pressing to his sternum for balance — and utterly devastating. His knees went weak and threatened to give out on him, as arousal tugged sharply in the pit of his stomach and shot straight down to his groin.

Perhaps it _had_ been a bit too long for him, if even the barest press of her body to his could so thoroughly arouse him.

Or perhaps it was that he was entirely too lonely, that it had weakened him, had made him susceptible to this — to her.

But that wasn't quite right, either.

It wasn't that she made him weak, it was that she inspired him to allow himself to be vulnerable — to drop his defenses around her.

She made him feel safe, and that terrified him.

He was suddenly and acutely aware of his own silence.

Solas cleared his throat once again, and replied, “Longer than I care to admit.”

Tephra turned her hand in his, offering her up her palm to him. He began to trace the lines of her palm, as well as the scars which still marked her from the fire. He traced the markings at her wrist, where he felt the erratic flutter of her pulse against his thumb.

She shivered when he touched her there, and it was more intoxicating than any mead.

He still regretted being unable to heal her completely.

Once again, she seemed to divine his thoughts as she mused, “I don't mind them. They make me think of you.”

Her remark elicited a complicated knot of emotion in him, as he thought of the scar on his thigh which he'd chosen to leave intact — much for the same reason.

He followed the scars up the length of her arm, to where they faded into unmarked skin at the crux of her elbow. When he touched her there, she shivered and turned on her heel to fix him with a complicated expression — something so tender, that it elicited an immediate, throbbing ache in his chest.

When she put her hand to the back of his neck, Solas inhaled sharply through his nose. With little effort, she drew him down into a tight embrace.

He could not help the way his body began to tremble in her arms, nor the way he held onto her as though she were a lifeline.

“Ma serannas, Solas,” she said quietly, so closely to his ear that he could feel the heat of her breath. “I don't think I would have made it this far without you.”

In truth, he wasn't sure that he would have made it this far without her, either.

He had been so close to fleeing.

If it had been any other, anyone lesser than her — he did not know if he would have stayed this long, if at all.

Solas shifted and pressed his forehead to hers, as he responded in kind in Elven — of his thanks, of his appreciation of her, of his admiration, and of how very much he wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to lose himself in her until everything else fell away — until nothing else mattered. He wanted to be selfish, to be entirely foolish, to take all that she freely offered and return it a hundredfold, to—

 _Shouldn't_ , he chided himself, as he stepped back from her, back from the sheer vertigo of being near her.

She was everything he needed, and he was nothing she deserved.

She deserved better than him, than what little he could give her. She deserved someone she could keep, someone who could stay — someone who could give her more than half-truths and fleeting time. She—

She brought him back to her with the barest touch to his neck, as though she meant to draw him into her arms and kiss him.

Panic flared through him, and his heart leapt toward the hope that she would.

He was profoundly disappointed when she didn't.

“I need to tell you something, Solas.”

 

———

 

Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this — whatever _this_ was.

Comfort? Consolation?

Was he simply humoring her, or was this something more?

Her eyes were drawn to the breathless part of his lips, and the look of supplication in his eyes. She knew that he would let her kiss him, and she wanted to — but not like this.

Not here. Not as a crutch, or a distraction. Not with his death still fresh in her mind.

It wouldn't be fair to him, however willing he was to let her.

The alcohol and the elfroot had been a fumbling attempt at distracting herself from her grief, an attempt to dull the pain and lessen the weight, but she would not use him like that. And she could not bear for him to think she would, or that it was all that she wanted him for.

He was — had become — so much more than that to her.

It made it more pressing for her to focus, to not be distracted by this was, to tell him what she'd promised to tell him.

“Solas,” she entreated, as she withdrew her hand from the back of his neck. She reached for his hands, and he readily offered them.

He stared at her with a half-lidded gaze, pupils blown wide in the waning light of the evening. “Hm?”

“It's about what happened in Redcliffe,” she clarified.

That stirred him from the lethargy of desire.

Solas blinked rapidly, as though suddenly aware of himself — as though his mind had been elsewhere entirely.

“I've heard what matters — the rest is irrelevant,” he replied, in a clipped tone. “You need not dwell on it.”

The dismissal was a slap to the face.

He seemed immediately aware of the impact of his words, but offered no resistance as she withdrew her hands from his grasp, no matter how reluctant he was to let her go.

Tephra gave a humorless laugh, “How exactly am I supposed to do that? I can't even close my eyes without seeing it.”

“It was undone,” he assured in a gentle tone, as he fumbled to ease her grief. “It was never real.”

She didn't understand his sudden insistence on what was real and what wasn't in that dark future. How could one aspect of it be real, and not the rest? He hadn't even been there as she had — not this Solas.

What would he say, if he could have faced his other self, or the other versions of their companions? Would he continue to deny them the validity of their existence, their experiences?

Anger hardened her tone, “That's easy for you to say, Solas. You haven't killed a world.”

For a moment, the placid mask of his composure slipped, and the furious grief she glimpsed beneath was utterly frightening.

She had touched a nerve in him — some old wound which seemed to run through the core of him — but she could not begin to fathom how it related in any way to what she'd done.

It was only a brief lapse, which he neatly concealed behind a frown as he said, “I do not need to know anymore of that future beyond that we failed, and what it cost the world. It has been undone, and no longer matters beyond serving to remind us of what is truly at stake.”

Solas clasped his hands behind his back, and there was a sudden, unbreachable distance between them.

Whatever door had been opened to her, it was surely closed now.

“I killed a world, Solas,” she said, as she attempted to ignore the sudden sense of loss hollowing her out. “A whole fucking world. And I don't know how to carry this — to just—”

How could it mean nothing to him?

She gave an incredulous laugh, “And you want me to just — what? Carry on like it was nothing? How I'm supposed to do this, if I can't even—”

“You cannot afford to be distracted by your grief,” he interjected, firmly. “You need to ready yourself for what's to come in facing the Breach, as well as this Elder One.”

_Of course._

How could she have been so foolish to expect he'd treat her any different than the others? Even if he made it so easy to feel like herself with him, and not just the mark, not just the Herald.

Just herself.

Just as the truth had faced her in the tavern, it faced her once again here, in the deepening cold of night settling around them.

There was no going back — not anymore. Not to her home, and not to herself.

Her hand fisted at her side, in a futile gesture of outrage.

“He did it all for his son,” she mused, as she thought of that other world.

“Alexius?”

She ignored his question, as she continued on, “He's dying, you see. The Blight. He damned the whole world just for a chance to save his son. And the horrible thing is, I _understand_.”

What would she do, if offered a chance to go back and save her loved ones? She had already killed one world, for another. Would she have done it again, if offered the chance?

Her gut twisted, sick with shame and grief.

“It was real — not a dream, not a trick,” she despaired. She could not help how it all tumbled out of her, how her grief refused to be bridled. “It was a real world, and I killed it. For you, for them, for—”

“Tephra—”

He'd so often shown compassion for those they helped, to those they sought to protect — why was he so disconnected from this? To her?

“No, it matters, Solas. You died, they died, and it matters,” she continued, her grief turning to frustrated anger.

_This is useless._

She seethed, “But it doesn't matter, right? Is it only real now? What if some other me decides this one isn't real? Where does it end?”

His brow furrowed, but his silence was only further dismissal. It was a wall, shutting her out.

What had possessed her to think speaking to him of what happened would ease her grief — her guilt? For whatever reason, he simply refused to hear it.

Just as she had in the tavern, all she accomplished by continuing by this ridiculous display of emotion was growing embarrassment.

She couldn't even look at him without feeling irrational and absurd, and entirely regretting having shown her weakness to him.

He had been the only one she'd felt she could speak to about this, who might understand — who she felt safe enough to unburden her grief to.

To be rejected outright like this left her feeling isolated and adrift.

Her silence provoked him into gentling his tone once more, as he began, “Ir abelas, perhaps I've—”

“Forget it,” she cut him off in a clipped tone, mirroring his own body language as she put distance between them. “Thank you for demonstrating how to channel magic; I'm sure it will help with the Breach tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he responded automatically, blinking rapidly, though he certainly seemed as though he meant to say more.

She, however, was not keen to hear it.

This wasn't the first time the world had ended for her, and she doubted it would be the last.

She had always carried her grief alone; why did she expect anything different with him?

If this world had taught her anything, it was that everything was fleeting, especially this — especially people.

“If, perhaps—”

“Goodnight, Solas,” she cut in, sharply. “I'll see myself back to town.”

She did not wait for him to argue, or to politely insist on accompanying her back. Instead, she left him there with his silence and his loneliness.

It was a kindness that he did not follow her this time.

 _A shame_ , she thought, as she recalled what little she'd understood of his breathless Elven.

She had wanted to kiss him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to circumstances in my personal life, it has taken me far too long to finish this chapter and update — nearly 10 and 1/2 weeks — for which, I thoroughly and humbly apologize. 
> 
> The meeting between the companions and advisors was a particularly difficult scene for me to write. I did a lot of research, replayed scenes, et cetera, to try and keep everyone in character as well as to not repeat much of the canon dialogue. If I've mishandled anyone, do let me know. 
> 
> Ea revas, ea astisha — Be free, be at peace  
> Felas — slow  
> Sathan — please  
> shem'el — faster, more quickly


	17. Hope Becomes A Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 17 soundtrack [Vol. 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bpl28l7FWc4&list=PLpg4CnzEJOnlBbExh9uo8pdNn6JT6aaU8)

I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone,  
you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space.  
On the one side is before and on the other side is after,  
and what is inside belongs only to the dead.  
_―Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless_

She is a boat docking in from war,  
her body, a burning village, a prison with open gates.  
She won’t let me hold her now, when she needs it most.  
_— Warsan Shire_

 

 

The Breach remained, as it had before — an inexorable, crushing weight bearing down on the world below it.

She could only assume it was the mark which allowed her to sense it so acutely, as no one else appeared to be as affected by it as she was, not even the mages. Where they seemed nervous and frightened to be in such proximity to the Breach, she was wobbly-legged and soaked in a cold sweat. It was all she could do, to simply focus on staying upright beneath such an implacable force.

The temple ruins were just as they’d left it, though the bodies had long-since been removed for proper burials. Still, she knew that many remained — their ashes were irretrievable from the rubble, and would remain there in the ruins forever.

She tread lightly, and with the knowledge that every step had once been a body.

The worst of it were the shadows.

“Carbonization,” Dorian informed, his usual grandeur sobered by the images of death which surrounded them. “Given that we’re essentially sacks of water walking around, it’s not surprising how easily we can be vaporized by, well — _that_. Though I do imagine this explosion was greater than most. I’m surprised anything was left standing, to be honest.”

She couldn’t focus on his words, not with the shapes of people marking the walls and staring back in silent accusation.

Would she ever remember what happened here, or was it lost forever as they were?

She shifted from the subject of the dead around them, and asked, “Is your friend still with us?”

“Sadly, no,” Dorian replied. “Felix is making his way home to Tevinter, and I will miss him dearly.”

“You could have gone with him,” Tephra suggested, casting the man a curious glance.

“I could have, yes, but it would have been selfish of me,” he mused. The conflict was writ large across Dorian’s expressive face as he said, “Stopping this Elder One matters more than any one man’s pain.”

She looked at the haggard faces of the mages and soldiers around them, and asked, “What are we saving the world for, if not to have more time with the ones we love?”

“Careful, my dear,” Dorian chuckled. “If they hear you talking like that, they’re bound to write a hymn or two. A terribly dull ballad of the undying compassion of the Herald of Andraste.”

Tephra gave a bitter snort, “They had better fucking not.”

Dorian gave a hearty laugh, before shifting the subject, “Speaking of loved ones. Do go on about yourself and our dear apostate friend.”

To her own credit, she didn’t blush. Still, her ears felt a bit warm as she feigned casual disinterest, “I hardly know him.”

The lie was certainly unconvincing, given how often she kept his company.

“Well,” Dorian continued, with great amusement, “—he certainly knows _you_ well enough to provoke his attention, and keep it.”

Her gaze drifted to where the mages had gathered, to where Solas idled, quietly advising them as they prepared themselves for the task at hand. As always, he had the uncanny ability to sense her gaze when it lingered too long. He met it calmly — even expectantly.

Heat seared across her face as she glanced away, and huffed, “This is hardly the place for gossip.”

Dorian gave a throaty chuckle, “If you insist. Though do inform me when we happen to be in the right place for such things, will you? All these marches to and fro with the soldiers is terribly boring.”

With Dorian taking his leave, she half-expected Solas to take the space he’d been occupying for the better part of the trip to the ruins. When he made no move to and simply returned to counseling the mages, she felt the dull sting of disappointment.

She could hardly blame him, though, given her previous outburst.

And in a way, he’d been right about Redcliffe — it had been undone. As long as they were vigilant, that future would never come to pass.

It was a practical perspective, if not what she’d needed from him.

She didn’t even know what she needed, or if anything could truly ease the grief. Perhaps it was selfish of her to expect anything from him, beyond the simple amicable connection they shared. Perhaps it was asking too much of him to share the weight of her grief, even if just in knowing what had happened.

Perhaps he’d been right, that it was a terrible burden, but that she need not carry it always with her. To let the experience serve as a warning, but to bury it as she had the saplings.

Bury it, and let it be at peace.

They had not spoken since the night before, nor at all during the trip to the temple, though she was certain he wasn’t avoiding her — quite the opposite.

Each of his attempts to catch her alone and speak with her was thwarted by a companion or an advisor, as they were often consulting with her or doing their best to boost her confidence for what lay ahead. She also had not allowed herself to be found alone by him, either.

A purposeful avoidance on her part, for which she could sense that he was becoming increasingly frustrated by it, as he likely intended to apologize.

She wouldn’t let him, of course. There was nothing for him to be sorry for. She had expected too much of him, had let herself grow too familiar with him, and for it, she had overstepped the boundaries of their companionship.

Still, she also wasn’t quite ready for resolution — his cold rebuff had wounded her pride. Perhaps it was easier for him to compartmentalize his own griefs, but it floored her that he would presume to expect her to do the same. Especially with something as incomprehensible as what happened in Redcliffe. Not the loss of one, or even many, but the loss of an entire world, an entire timeline — _gone_. Erased from existence, as if it had never been, and living on only in her grief.

She had never found it easy to confide in anyone about loss, or grief; she was used to carrying her burdens alone. It had taken a great deal to allow herself to be so vulnerable with him. That he’d shunned her so easily had effectively cut her growing affection for the man at its knees. For that, she was content to let him stew and consider what he’d done.

It was childish, to be sure, but there was still time yet for reconciliation. She felt no particular need for haste when her own pride was still recovering. And hadn’t that been what had been bought, with the staggering price of another world’s demise? Time?

Time to avert that tragedy, and time to cherish what remained to them.

Time, even, to indulge this foolish game of pride and humility, when it would have been far easier to simply sink back into the ease of what had come before the fight. Of when he’d been standing at her back, as he spoke in low tones of frequencies and forces and subtlety _._ Back to those swollen moments of time that stretched and staggered, where all she could focus on was his acute proximity to her, and the pleasing timbre of his voice.

Perhaps even back to touching him, and how he’d trembled beneath it.

Tephra flexed and clenched her hands, as though it would soothe her nervous energy. She stared upward, and let the slow rotation of the Breach sap away her foolish thoughts.

 _Focus on what you need to do,_ she chided herself. _Or none of this will matter, in the end._

“Herald, if I may have a word.”

She turned to find the Commander at her side. He seemed, at once, determined and flustered.

“Of course,” she granted.

Rutherford put a hand to his neck — a nervous habit she’d picked up on — as he said, “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other night. I did not mean to undermine your decision, regarding the mages. I only meant to advise, however inefficiently.”

“Not at all,” she replied, rather quickly. She was not keen on revisiting those arguments, nor dwelling on them. “I have been, perhaps, unreasonable in my expectations of the people here — as well as my own responsibilities. I welcome all perspectives on the matters at hand, as my own is quite limited at times.”

“I look forward to assisting in future delegations, however I may,” he offered, with an easy smile.

Another reminder that this did not end with the closing of the Breach.

She could only hope that when it did end, it didn’t end for her the way it had for Andraste. She wasn't too keen on the idea of martyrdom.

Solas was at her side, suddenly. “If you’re prepared to begin, Herald, the mages await your command.”

His tone was theatrically ceremonial, as though this were a performance for an audience that no others but him were aware of. Or perhaps the gravity of events unfolding — something that would inevitably go down in history, for better or worse — was getting to him, as it had the others.

She wasn’t sure which was worst; the civilians with their reverent stares, or the insufferable formality of her advisers. It all just felt increasingly surreal to her, no matter how she was reminded of the gravity and reality of the situation.

Tephra turned to face the mages, who stood rows along the rocky base of the crater where the temple once stood.

She cleared her throat, and did her best to project her voice so that she could be heard. “I thank you all for courage you have shown in choosing to come here, and in helping me to close the Breach. It had brought all of us much misery and loss since it first opened; let us close it, and finish this together.”

Even if she felt like an impostor playing at leader, the looks of approval from her advisers at least let her know she wasn’t entirely fucking it all up.

_No more hesitation._

She turned, steadied herself, fixed the Breach with a hard stare of confidence and readiness that she didn’t remotely feel.

There was no room for failure.

Solas spoke up behind her, with a thunderous confidence she couldn’t even begin to fake or mimic.

“Focus past the Herald! Let her will draw from you!”

She focused on his voice, and let it anchor amidst her doubt and fear.

Even if she didn’t quite believe that she could pull this off, he did. And that mattered to her.

The muscles in her arm spasmed and jerked as the mark came to life with a ferocity she’d never felt before. The Breach flashed above, responding in kind as it sent massive waves of energy shimmering across the sky. When the magic surged around her, she had all of a single moment to take a breath before the whole of it hit her with full force.

Despite Solas’s attempts to prepare her, as well as Dorian and Vivian’s attempts at reassuring her along the way, it was startling clear to her that no amount of preparation could have truly prepared her for this.

The surge of power rushing through her was at once disorienting and intoxicating.

As she pushed forward, closer to the heart of the original explosion, the air grew dense with magical energy. Pushing through it became difficult, like wading through a bog. The burning scent of ozone choked her lungs, and she could feel the magic burning in every pore across her skin, down into every nerve ending, boring deep into the marrow of her bones.

Tephra reached for the funnel of energy dancing at the heart of the ruins, which stretched up the many long miles to the Breach overhead. It was a direct connection to the massive rift overhead, and when she felt the mark in her hand connect to it, her whole body stiffened from the shock of it.

Her body felt suddenly and entirely too small, and whatever it was that made her _her,_ felt as though it had become massive. Had become _more_. Her skin felt too tight, as though it were straining to hold her body together. The magic filled her to bursting, crushing out her every thought or breath. It felt as if an ocean had burst into her lungs — a strange, heady sense of not-breathing, of drowning on dry land.

It felt as if every part of her was vibrating, humming, _singing_ — with a song older than the world itself.

She could feel the heart — _spirit?_ — of every mage connected to her, beating as one. The will of many, funneled into a singular purpose.

 _Seal it_.

The Veil sang above her, around and _through_ her. She could feel it, in its entirety, stretched out across the world. Barring spirit from flesh, dreaming from waking, barring—

For one brief, mad moment, she realized how easy it would have been to simply tear the whole thing down.

The magic in her hand called to it, sang through her, urging her to reach beyond herself and sunder the world as she knew it.

 _No, that’s_ —

Another world flashed in her memories; a red ruin which refused to remain buried.

Tephra thrust her hand up toward the Breach, and loosed the magic building in her palm. It shot like an arrow up through the funnel, straight into the heart of the Breach.

The heavens quaked overhead.

Her head pounded with a swollen song — an incomprehensible noise building, pushing against the constraints of her flesh — as she struggled to focus on grasping the rift. She could feel her consciousness dip and sway, as she felt the mark’s magic hook deep into the Breach.

Panic swelled, but she stubbornly ignored it.

She would not fail here.

_Please work, please—_

Tephra gripped the magic tight, and wrenched it back with all her might.

Her sight was drowned out by a flash of burning light, as the Breach collapsed inward. The shock waves hit her with full force, and sent her sprawling to the ground.

Her ears were still ringing when she felt Cassandra grip her by the arms and hauled her to her feet.

“You did it,” the Seeker declared, in awe.

Around them, the soldiers and mages erupted in celebration.

Tephra’s head was spinning, as she stepped away from Cassandra.

She stared at the mark in her hand, disquieted. It flickered and glimmered faintly.

It had _wanted_.

She had never once let herself forget that it was something other, something bestowed — or cursed — upon her. But never once had she felt it exert itself as though it were a living thing, something capable of its own intent.

Whatever it was, or had been, she had little time to consider it.

There was a strange sense of bursting, of breaking, right behind her eyes. All at once, her legs felt boneless and the world tipped beneath her.

It was Dorian who caught her first, gripping her by the arm to keep her on her feet. Cassandra assisted him in bringing her to sit on her knees. She could feel the hot rush of blood running from her nose, spilling quickly down over her chin. It was Vivienne who knelt, and gently cupped her face with hands burning bright with magic.

“Oh, dear,” Vivienne sighed. “I fear we ask too much of our Herald.”

She felt the Enchanter’s magic lance through her head in probing tendrils; it was a profoundly unsettling sensation. Cold as ice, but it did not hurt. On the contrary — it soothed. However unsettling, the magic’s touch soothed over the pulsing ache left in the wake of using the mark.

“You did marvelously,” Dorian assured, in a gentle tone.

There was still an unbearable sense of fullness crushing her lungs and laboring her breath.

“I can’t—” Tephra rasped, as she pulled uselessly at her coat.

“If you would be so kind to assist me, dear.”

Dorian pressed a hand to her ribs. Vivienne’s magic was cold and precise, whereas his was all heat and flash, but neither staunched the rogue magic coursing through her.

Cassandra stood over them, concern creasing her brow. “Is she—”

There was a sudden sense of euphoria, as the edges of her sight began to blacken.

And then Solas was there, at her side.

While the others were becoming increasingly panicked and arguing amongst themselves of what to do, he was oddly calm. He knelt, and gently cupped her forearm.

Tephra turned her marked hand in his grasp, and clasped his wrist with trembling fingers.

His magic had become familiar to her. How many times now had she come to him, when the mark ached too terribly? She knew what to expect when it slipped beneath her skin, to calm the raging magic embedded there.

But when Solas’s magic glimmered against her skin, she felt the mark heave toward him as though it meant to free itself from her — as though it meant to latch onto him. His brow creased, ever so slightly, as she felt the surge of his magic.

_Wh—_

The chaos stilled, and her breath returned.

— _What?_

She gaped at Solas, but he avoided her gaze as he stood. His demeanor was entirely detached and professional.

She regained her composure quickly, and batted the other mage’s hands away. “Enough,” she griped. “No more magic. I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” Cassandra deadpanned, as she offered a hand.

Tephra grasped the Seeker’s hand and let the woman haul her to her feet. Once on her feet, she used the sleeve of her coat to wipe the blood from her face as she suppressed the urge to continue to gape at Solas.

Whatever it had been, she couldn’t begin to understand, nor theorize. She knew nothing of magic beyond the simple stealthing glamour she used for reconnaissance, or for fleeing. Even that simplistic trick barely passed for magic, in her opinion.

Whatever it had been, this was not the place to ask.

Not here, surrounded by soldiers — surrounded by ex-Templars.

She would not compromise his safety, not for this.

 _Not for anything_.

That was a sudden, startling truth.

She carefully met his gaze again, amidst the bustle of celebrating soldiers and mages. Solas regarded her with an inscrutable, placid stare. All that gave away his unease was when he clasped his hands behind his back. She had long-since learned that it was a defensive posture for him, one he readily adopted when he meant to distance himself from whatever person or situation had warranted it.

Had he felt it? Had he felt the mark attempt to latch onto him? Was that what had unsettled him so much?

Or was it something else?

There was so much she couldn’t remember from the events at the Conclave, and the absence of knowing gnawed at her.

It left room for doubt.

He knew so much of the Fade, and inexplicable things. No matter how he hedged around it, he knew more than anyone else involved with the Inquisition on matters directly tied to the mark on her hand. His theories were often uncanny in their accuracy, and he, himself, was an enigma. Entirely inscrutable. He dodged and parried and diverted questions of himself, of his history, better than Cassandra handled her sword.

Could he have been involved, somehow?

It was a notion too startling, and too dangerous to consider.

He had always been, to her, more than he seemed. More than what he so carrefully presented himself to be. Something far more complicated than the simple apostate who so readily volunteered his services to the Inquisition, at his own peril.

Perhaps it was the throb of the mark in her hand, or the dregs of magic still filling her to bursting, but when she looked at him now in the waning light he appeared far older than his years.

And _tired_ — weighed down by things she couldn’t begin to guess at.

Still, he was not immune to the jubilance and celebration around them. There was relief in his face when he looked at her, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. His smiles were such a rarity, that it was easy to forget that she was still cross with him.

She thought of kissing him, just then, here among the soldiers and mages and their companions. It was a wonderfully absurd notion to entertain, and it would have been worth their shock — especially his.

An idle thought, but not entirely unexpected.

She had been doing her best to ignore it, but if she were truly honest with herself, she would have to admit that the attraction had been building between them for a while now. And neither of them could plausibly deny its existence, not after that night at the rift. Not after her gratuitous display of touching him, nor his willingness to allow it.

Whatever his original intentions had been — whether he’d simply intended to demonstrate how to better utilize the mark in her hand — all that business with touching and holding hands had hardly been platonic, let alone anything to do with teaching her how to channel magic.

Though she would certainly enjoy seeing him dance around explaining it away as merely educational assistance, or however he might put it.

She knew better than to expect an implicit statement on his part. He guarded himself so diligently whenever the conversation shifted to him, that it was only practical to assume that he was just as cautious with his affections.

And even so, there was no guarantee that he felt any affection for her at all. Her trespasses with his personal boundaries may have simply flustered him. He was an apostate, after all, and a particularly solitary one. Who was to say how long it had been since he’d been touched with affection by another? As guarded as he was, she could only presume that it had been some time for him.

It made her feel almost contrite to have trampled those careful boundaries so carelessly, but it was a concern for another time.

Tephra sighed, deeply, as she looked up at the scarred sky above her.

It was done.

The Breach was closed.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


Leliana stood vigilant, bow at the ready.

The sounds of fighting filtered through the heavy doors sealing off the hall — the clash of magic, and arrows on the door.

She knew how this ended, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

It would end, as it always ended.

“Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame,” the spymaster proclaimed.

Something heavy hit the door. Silence, and then again.

Leliana nocked an arrow.

Dorian chanted somewhere behind her, distantly.

The acrid burn of ozone and magic made her head spin.

She didn’t want to see what was to come. She had already lived it, and the endless repetition of her nightmares had worn her down. Like a bone broken wrong, the memories ground together agonizingly in splinters and fragments.

The door shattered beneath the weight of so many demons crashing against it. Leliana loosed, but all she could focus on was the demon dragging Solas’s lifeless body by the throat. It threw him aside as though he were nothing more than garbage. He landed in a boneless heap, and did not stir.

The others fell to claws and arrows, and Leliana’s faithful petitions fell on silent ears as the demons took her.

She felt the snap of magic around her, but there was no sickening tumble through the void, no world-less drop into the abyss.

There was only water.

Dark and crushing and rushing all around her, and her brother’s small body lost in the current.

When she reached for him, her arm was nothing more than green fire burning away to bone and ash.

Tephra woke with a start to Cassandra’s firm grasp on her shoulder. Her heart pounded in her chest, and panic crowded her throat.

“You were—”

“I’m fine,” she insisted, ignoring the cold slick of sweat coating her skin and the fear crushing her chest like a vice.

She remembered having just sat down in the corner by the fireplace, taking refuge in one of the few plush chairs that had been set there. She had only meant to rest, to catch her breath — she had not meant to fall asleep. She had been avoiding sleep, avoiding the nightmares, which seemed to come in waves now that she’d faced so many horrors in the last months here among the Inquisition. She knew that she could not put off sleep indefinitely, but she had hoped to be very drunk before that time.

She didn’t mind the nightmares so much when she couldn’t remember them the next morning.

“Of course,” The Seeker conceded, though the tight expression on her face highlighted her unease.

“I only meant to inform you that Solas has assured us that the Breach is truly closed. He confirms that the heavens are scarred, but calm. He’s dreamt of—” Cassandra frowned, stopping short to consider her words and reconcile her own misgivings and faith, before correcting herself, “He has walked the Fade to confirm that the seal holds from both sides. The Breach is sealed.”

“Something good, then, after so many terrible things,” Tephra mused.

She did not voice her unease, on how simple it had seemed. Unsettlingly so.

Not in using the mark, or the closing of the Breach, but in that they had faced no opposition in doing so. There hadn’t been a single red templar in sight of the ruins, least of all the “Elder One”. After Redcliffe, she had expected that a move would have been made against them, something to slow their advance or to stop them entirely, but there had been nothing.

That it had been so easy left her with a nagging unease.

“We’ve reports of lingering rifts and many questions remain, but this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread.”

It had begun to spread even before they’d left the ruins of the temple. Leliana’s agents had packed an entire wagon full of cages, and when the Breach had been sealed a whole host of ravens had taken flight carrying news of their success. Merely a formality, as there would be few in all of Thedas who could not simply look up and see it for themselves.

“We all did this; you know how many people were involved. It was only _this_ which put me at the center of it all,” she replied, as she gestured with her marked hand.

“A strange sort of luck,” Cassandra conceded, face set grim and thrown into stark relief by the firelight. “I’m not sure if we need more or less of it, to be honest. But you’re right. This was a victory of alliance — one of the few in recent memory. With the Breach closed, that alliance will need new focus.”

Solas’s words came back to her, in ominous clarity.

 _“_ _You will always be this to them — you will always be known as the Herald_.”

“I have taken enough of your time tonight,” the Seeker said, sensing her unease. “Enjoy your rest. You have earned it.”

She gave an amused huffed as Cassandra left her. It was a feigned gesture, but if the Seeker had sensed that as well as her unease, she gratefully did not show it.

 _This is starting to get out of hand_.

She heard the laughter of her companions, still sitting where she’d left them at a game of Diamondback. It took considerable effort to keep their company lately, to feign some semblance of normalcy, when every time she looked at them she could still see their dead faces. Blighted with red lyrium, and savaged by demons.

She had stayed as long as she could, until she was too tired to keep up the farce. It had been too emotionally draining to ignore the memories of Redcliffe lurking behind each innocuous statement or gesture, and she had already been too physically drained from sealing the Breach. She had sought refuge by the fire, and had only meant to take a brief reprieve. She’d removed her boots and curled up in the oversized armchair, and watched the logs burning in the fireplace.

She had not meant to sleep, to surrender back to the nightmares which plagued her waking hours.

That she could not shake her grief — or at the very least, put it out of mind — troubled her. It followed her like an unwelcome companion, slowing her in combat, and putting distance between herself and those who’d grown to become friends and companions. She was starting to wonder if it would begin to affect her judgment, her decisions, which those who depended on her could ill afford.

It was a strange thing, to be haunted by the deaths of those who still remained.

Could the ghosts of an unmade world have followed her back here? Was that such a thing that could exist?

She had only just begun to lace her boot, when she noticed him in her peripheral.

It was almost as though her unvoiced questions had summoned him. An amusing thought, to think that all she had to do was think of preposterous questions to bring him running to answer them.

Solas watched her work the laces with an almost disdainful expression.

Tephra sighed, “Of all the things to provoke your disapproval, I didn’t think boots would be on the list.”

“Our people—”

“ _Our_ people? Is it that now?”

Solas looked as if she’d struck him.

 _Pissing hell_.

She had meant to jest, to poke fun at his earlier preclusion of her people from whatever constituted as his own, but stress had worn her thin. Even her softer tones came sharp, and quick.

Contrite, she averted her gaze, “Unlike you, Solas, I can’t magic my feet and I’d rather not get frostbite.”

He recovered quickly, but his relaxed posture had shifted into a rigid defensiveness as he locked his hands behind his back and said, “It is a simple ward. I would not mind—”

“I’ve had enough with magic lately, and these work just fine,” she replied, knotting her laces. “Besides, your magic is better spent elsewhere than on my feet.”

His brow furrowed, as he lapsed into silence and watched her pull on the other boot.

“I had hoped to speak with you,” he said, after the staggered pause.

The careful softness in his tone brought out her ire.

“Are we not now?”

The muscles in his jaw gave a twitch at her purposeful obtuseness.

“I had meant—”

She knew what he had meant, but she wasn’t ready for his apology. Not with the dregs of Redcliffe still lurking in her head, nor his rebuff at the rift. She was still nursing her wounded pride; it was something he knew all too well. It wasn’t easy for her to allow herself to be vulnerable with anyone, such that when she did open herself up to another, it was a particularly painful affront to be shunned.

Still, the look on his face — the softened brow, the drop in his guard — reminded her of the other him. The broken one she’d kissed.

_I should have—_

“Perhaps later,” she conceded.

Guilt nagged at her when she stood and headed for where their companions still sat at a far table. He followed without a further word on the subject.

Part of her wondered why she was putting off resolving this meaningless charade of being cross with him, yet still, part of her felt it wasn’t quite fair to expect him to understand her burden, let alone share in it. Wounded pride aside, it had been unfair of her to expect him to, no matter how familiar they had become with one another.

Varric and Sera were where she’d left them, and had been joined by Dorian and Blackwall. They were several bottles deep in mead, and quite engrossed in some debate or another while playing a round of Diamondback. Cassandra lingered in the periphery, and was soon joined by Solas.

The two of them were almost comical in their separateness — two lonely islands, drifting in the periphery.

She would have bid them to join — for all the good it would do — but she had no intention of staying. She wanted fresh air, and a long walk to shake the grief out of her bones.

However, her departure did not escape her companion’s notice as she attempted to skirt around the table and head for the door.

“Ah, good, you’re here,” Dorian announced, cheerily. She was almost certain he noticed her on purpose. “Perhaps you can settle a bit of friendly debate.”

“Must I?” she asked, attempting to sound more weary than she actually was.

“You’ll love this one,” Varric assured, with a chuckle and tone that told her she probably wouldn’t. “Sparkler here thinks your gods and the old gods of Tevinter are related.”

Her head throbbed immediately at the notion.

“Not simply related, but perhaps one and the same,” Dorian mused. “We did have the rather nasty habit of claiming many Elvhen things as our own.”

“Many?” Solas echoed, in a flat tone.

Dorian coughed, and had the good grace to look a bit ashamed.

“This all sounds rather tedious for a friendly debate,” Tephra observed, and saved her companion from whatever embarrassing retort he may have conjured in defense of his people.

Seizing on the change of subject, Dorian merrily informed, “Well, if you’d prefer a different subject, there has been some rather interesting chatter among the rabble on whether or not you’re our new Andraste.”

_For fucking sake of—_

“That is exactly the opposite of anything I would have wanted to hear from you,” Tephra replied.

Dorian beamed. “Truly, my pleasure.”

“I do hate you,” she informed, rather cheerfully.

Dorian slapped a hand over his chest, and feigned distress.

Sera was working her way through a rack or ribs, all while somehow handling her cards with ease, as she said, “I always wondered what the deal was about our Divine and the Black Divine was. Besides the whole bit about having a cock.”

Dorian gave a laugh, “Cocks and magic tolerance just about sum up the major differences, really. And we have better pageantry, of course.”

Cassandra huffed in disagreement.

“Ah, yes, I had almost forgotten that the Imperial Chantry is considered heretical to you Southerners,” Dorian mused. “Vast orgies, blood magic, and whatever else your Revered Mother told you as a girl to keep you firmly in line. Still, haven’t we all been deemed heretics here, or have you forgotten?”

“I had not,” Cassandra conceded. “I do not care what the Chantry names us, all the while as they huddle in their churches and do nothing for the common people. If acting when no others have makes heretics of us, then so be it.”

Dorian gave an amused huff, “It seems we share that sentiment, dear Seeker.”

“I’m not sure why I’m being consulted to settle a debate on Andrastian faith,” Tephra mused, almost entirely to herself.

“To be honest, I know little of elven faith and haven’t a clue what proper Dalish prayer actually looks like,” Dorian admitted. “I imagine it has less to do with dancing naked under the moon than the locals would have me believe — which is rather disappointing, I must admit.”

“We only shuck our clothing when we’re roasting human babies,” she deadpanned, as one of the servers navigated past her to deliver mead to the table. “It can get rather messy.”

Cassandra made a strangled noise, and the server dropped the pitcher she was carrying in shock. When the server attempted to gather up the fragments of shattered porcelain, Varric shooed her away with promises of cleaning the mess himself.

“Herald, please,” the Seeker entreated, with an exasperated sigh. “We have enough trouble quelling rumors of the Dalish without your helping to legitimize them.”

“No one’s going to forget what I am any time soon,” Tephra shot back, in a sharp tone. “The least I can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all.”

She had not meant to snap at Cassandra, nor to appear so defensive, yet her anger came so quickly these days. There was no justification for it, only the growing distance she felt between herself and those around her.

Grief crowded out everything soft in her.

“Do you not have faith in your own gods?” Cassandra asked, thankfully saving her from further dwelling on her own useless grief.

“I have faith in you,” she replied, with a crooked grin. A bit of truth, cloaked in humor.

Still, Tephra was startled by the look Cassandra gave her — a faint smile, and eyes that were bright with a strange sort of pride.

“The Elvhen gods are gone, are they not?” Dorian asked. “Who do you pray to if your own gods are absent?”

“They were taken,” she replied. “Or tricked away somewhere in the Beyond by the Dread Wolf, as it’s said.”

“A misconception repeated many times makes it no less true,” Solas remarked, with annoyance.

Sometimes, he could be so tiring. Did everything have to be a debate on validity and history?

“It seems our Fade expert is also an expert on this matter,” Tephra declared, gesturing at Solas. “Perhaps you’re better off asking him.”

“I don’t recall asking him who he prayed to,” Dorian mused, not letting her off the hook.

“I don’t pray to anyone, least of all them. They’re just as likely to answer me as your own Maker is,” she relented. “It hardly matters, though. If they were ever real, only the immortals know the truth of it, and they left us long ago.”

“You don’t suppose there might be any left knocking around somewhere in the world? There’s certainly enough places left unexplored in Thedas,” Dorian mused. “Though I suppose you could hardly tell the difference, even if they decided to mingle with their modern descendants. How would—” It took him all of a moment to realize the implications of what he’d said. Dorian coughed, and politely declined to finish his train of thought.

“Even if any remained, they clearly do not care for us,” Tephra replied. _Or perhaps, just not enough to do anything about it_. “Dreadful, isn’t it? Their own children, left to suffer in their stead.”

“And what do you know of the immortal elves?” Solas asked, with a curious frown.

There was an unspoken tension there, in the stiff line of his shoulders.

“Little, and less than the scholars of my people,” she confessed. “But they must have. Arlathan fell, and the elves quickened, yet little is said of the immortals who remained. Did they simply vanish, or die away? Or did they all enter uthenera like cowards, and leave us to face this world alone?”

It was a scathing accusation against those who’d come before the Dalish, before all of the mortal elves. There were no gods left to answer for the plight of her people, none left to hear their pleas for deliverance from subjugation and persecution.

It was unfair to lay such at his feet, but he was an other, undefined — neither Dalish, nor city elf — and stood apart from everything she knew of their people. Much of his knowledge was beyond anything she had ever known; he knew more of the elves than any she had ever met, and could possibly answer better of whether or not any immortals remained, given how frequently and thoroughly he traverse the Fade.

Had he never met any in the dreaming world? Or, perhaps—

When she fixed him with sudden scrutiny, he pointedly avoided her gaze.

It wasn’t the first time the notion had occurred to her, but she had never dared to ask such a preposterous thing of him. The accusation alone would bring him trouble, if only more scrutiny to who he was, and his place in the Inquisition.

But if it were true? How many people would tear the world apart to get their hands on an immortal elf? How many more would kill him on sight, if only out of superstition?

Tephra diverted, “Besides, if they had survived, whether they had stayed to help us or not, there would be stories of it.”

“Ah, yes — stories,” Solas remarked, in a clipped tone, still not quite meeting her gaze.

He was, at times, infuriatingly set in his opinions when it came to her people, and she was perhaps entirely too defensive of them — a poor combination for even the simplest conversations on the subject between the two of them.

“Yes, stories,” Tephra replied, sharply. Her previous compassion withered, as she continued, “For all you mock the Dalish for its lorekeeping, it is the only thing we have had — a living, breathing history — passed on as best it could be through the generations. For however flawed it may be, it is all we’ve had. That, and the continued loss of all we’ve held dear.”

The silence which settled amongst her companions was palpable.

She had not meant to bring down the mood, but this subject was never one that could be treated lightly.

“Does the Southern Chantry not provide relief to the elves?” Dorian asked, looking to the Seeker. “Those in my country often seek asylum within the Chantry, and find honest work there. The clerics are always charitable with the slaves.”

As fond as she was of Dorian, there were times when she honestly considered the best angles in which to deck him in his pretty face. Repeatedly.

“My people don’t need charity, they need justice,” Tephra snapped, eliciting an uncomfortable silence among her companions. Her jaw clenched, as she attempted to rein in her anger. “But such a thing undermines the Chantry, and those in power in the existing system. As long as they stand, there won’t be any justice for the elves.”

“So much for an easy night of Diamondback,” Varric grumbled, doing his best to ignore the politically charged conversation going on around him.

Tephra sighed.

Why was it that every time she was pushed to speak of her people with them, it was like going to war? There wasn’t a single subject that wasn’t a trap, that wasn’t barbed with the weight of historical injustices beyond counting.

“The Dalish tell stories to keep the past alive,” she said, finally. “We speak to the gods, even if they can’t answer us. We don’t ask things of them, because they’re in no position to help us. Ours is not a culture of worship, it is a culture of remembering.”

If Solas had any further opinions on the validity of memories passed on from one generation to the next, he kept them to himself, and simply watched her as all the rest were.

“It’s difficult to keep a written history when, generation after generation, you are driven from one corner of the world to the next. When your people are robbed of their history, of artifacts, of anything that speaks to what came before,” she continued. “When you don’t have a pen, you have your words. You have what you remember. You pass it on, as best you can. Whole clans can disappear in a night, lost to raiders, or slavers, or disease, or any number of weird shit that happens in this world. If someone dies, you mourn them, but you remember them as well. What they knew, and how they lived. You remember them by the lessons they learned and try to pass those on to as many people as possible. You keep them alive in as many ways as you can.”

“Maker knows there’s no end to weird shit happening,” Varric agreed.

It should have made her laugh, but it didn’t.

She thought of her parents, lost in the mountains to raiders. How her clan had remembered them better than she did, how she learned more of them in their death than she ever had while they were still alive, and how precious those stories were to her.

“All that matters is what we leave behind us when we go, even if it’s just a story,” she said, thinking of her brother. All that was left him were the stories in her head. “No one is left forgotten.”

“I’m—” Tephra stopped herself from apologizing for speaking at length, of matters that were far too important to her to diminish with catering to the sensibilities of her non-elven companions. “I’m tired,” she managed, and stood to excuse herself. “I’m sure you guys will manage without me for the rest of the evening.”

“If you insist,” Dorian sighed, feigning the complaint with far more gusto than was needed.

As she headed for the door, she ignored her growing embarrassment.

She could only imagine how she must have appeared to them — angry and sullen, thoughts running too hot on subjects better left neutral. Herald or not, she wasn’t so certain how long they would endure a mouthy knife-ear before losing their patience and throwing her back into a cell.

Amidst the chatter of her companions, she heard Sera sigh sharply, “She needs to relax, that one. Friggin’ unclench once in a while.”

Sera was right, of course.

She just didn’t know how to.

None of them understood, and really, how could they? None of them had been there in that terrible future. They couldn’t even begin to comprehend the horror, and her paltry descriptions would never do it justice if she tried explaining it to them.

And why bother?

The one person she reached out to speak of it had turned her away; the others were just as likely to as him. A few might have tried to listen, but they would never truly understand and it would only further widen this gap between them.

It was a kindness to them to keep it to herself.

When she moved to exit the tavern, she was startled by the sudden impact something small colliding with her shoulder. It sent her stumbling, bewildered and fumbling, as she watched the creature swoop past in a frenzy. It landed on a empty table in a agitated flutter of feathers and screeching.

Tephra’s heart was still racing as the realization set in. _It’s only an owl_ , she chided herself.

It flapped its wings and ruffled its feathers as it settled, head darting as it looked about the tavern before fixing its large dark eyes on her.

She was never particularly superstitious, but still, the stories amongst her people carried weight with her. Even a myth could hold wisdom, if parsed well. Among her people, owls were often viewed as ill omens — specifically death omens — especially when found in places they did not frequent naturally, such as inhabited areas.

They were Falon’din’s creatures, and never heralded anything good.

An uneasy feeling settled in her gut as she watched a maid shoo it off into the rafters.

Tephra turned and headed out the door, a bit more hurried than she had been before.

She startled once more when she felt a hand at her elbow, tugging her to a stop just outside the door. Tephra turned, and was met with Varric’s concerned face.

“You alright there, Snowflake?”

She gave him a terse nod, “Just startled me, that’s all.”

He seemed to consider his words for a moment, before sighing, “You don’t have to carry it all yourself, you know. That’s what we’re here for, kid.”

She hadn’t been a “kid” in a long time, and she didn’t know how to put her griefs down, but there was at least one thing she was sure of.

“I’m glad you’re here, Varric,” she said, and cupped his broad face between her hands.

Her chest felt tight when she reached down to embrace him, but she felt some measure of tension slip away when he returned the gesture. She let out a shaking sigh, and straightened, trying to not think of the other version of him she’d left behind.

Varric huffed, and gave her a bemused smile, “What was that for?”

_Because you’re the best of them._

“No reason,” she replied, and brushed past him.

“If you say so,” he called after her, with a laugh.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


By the time he left the tavern — a staggered wait, so as to not arouse any undue notice from his companions — there was no sign of the Herald.

The streets were choked with revelers, civilians and soldiers alike. The atmosphere was refreshingly free of the tensions it held previously, though it did little to ease his own. He should have been celebrating the victory — however small, it was a victory to be had — but caution stayed his mood.

The Elder One and his people were still a threat, and Solas would not rest easy until they were dealt with and his orb was returned to him.

And if he were honest with himself, his disposition would be entirely different if the Herald were not avoiding his company. He preferred hers above all others now, even when she was cross with him. For too long he’d been starved of true companionship — to be seen as an equal, as a person, and not simply for what he was or what he could do. She saw him for the person he was, and asked nothing more of him than his company and conversation.

Her growing familiarity with him was no true indication of intent — of interest. It was absurd of him to expect anything more than what simple companionship she sought with him. It was his own loneliness that had set him on this path of wretched hope and longings. He was grateful for whatever time she chose to spend with him, regardless of intent. The tumult of his emotions weren’t her fault, nor her concern. Neither a burden, nor a bother, but a reminder that he was still alive, that he was something more than his duty.

For that, she had become important to him, and now the loss of her company — however temporary — tore at him. He had sought to rectify the situation multiple times, but she continued to rebuff him.

He knew that she needed to be consoled, to speak her grief, and in denying her that he had hurt her, but the intimacy of the moment had driven him away in fear. The touch of her hands on his had entirely dismantled whatever defense he may have attempted.

It was truth he’d given her — that she could not afford to be distracted by her grief — and truth was rarely kind. Still, he could have used a kinder hand, and he could have chosen to listen and let her air her griefs. To speak them, and perhaps send them away like a fistful of dandelion seeds.

It had been his mistake in turning her away, and his panicked retreat had done nothing but hurt her. Her silence and distance had been thoroughly earned, and he had nothing to account for it but himself. A panicked retreat in the face of a truth far too real to accept.

_“That’s easy for you to say, Solas. You haven’t killed a world.”_

Regardless of intent, her statement had found its mark with devastating accuracy.

Because he had.

A real one, not just a potential one — a living, breathing world full of real people. Now the world was blighted, and unnatural, drawn in schism and prevented from becoming whole once more.

Not that he could debate the nuances with her, nor even admit that truth, however she might have some capacity to understand his position now.

 _I had no choice_.

Perhaps it would not ring so hollow, with her.

Perhaps she would understand being put in an impossible situation and having to make an impossible choice — unconscionable, even.

Or perhaps she would see him as all the rest had — as monstrous, as a betrayer, as irredeemable.

How could she not, when she was agonizing over the decision she had made in ending a world that would never be. Unmaking that which would never be — a hypothetical, a potential — rather than a world that was? How could she not look upon him with anything less than disgust, if she knew what he meant to accomplish?

Restoring the world to what it had been before — making it whole once more — meant unmaking what it was now. The power structures that currently existed would crumble as easily as the treasures of Arlathan had when the Veil had risen. When the Veil fell, it would take much of this world with it.

It was a monstrous thing — _duty_.

“I did not believe in much when I left Minrathous.”

Dorian’s statement effectively pulled Solas from his thoughts, as he turned to consider the human with an inquisitive frown.

“Shocking, I know,” Dorian continued, with amusement. “Yet, ever since I’ve come to the south, I have seen one impossible thing after another. If I’d known the south was so exciting, I would have left Minrathous years ago.”

“I suppose I could say the same, in a manner of speaking,” Solas remarked.

Dorian gave a laugh, “Truly there must be little outside of the Fade that could compare to the wonders you’ve seen there. Breach aside, of course.”

“Perhaps,” Solas replied in a noncommittal tone, as he thought of Lavellan. How could he not? It was as the spirits had said — she was the brightest thing in this world, and often he could not tear his sight away from her. Even the terrible wonder of the Breach seemed to pale in comparison. “The world is full of impossible things. Closed minds rob us of the ability to expect it, let alone accept it.”

“I must admit, it’s rather fascinating to meet a true somniari — a dreamer,” Dorian mused. “It was thought they had died out ages ago, and few still have emerged in our age.”

“Could you truly blame those who do not? Hypothetically speaking, of course,” Solas replied.

“In the South? Not at all, given how those barbarians treat mages. Still, in the North, they would be revered,” Dorian informed, with a whimsical sort of nostalgia. “In those days, you might have been a king, or perhaps a priest. Certainly more than just—”

Dorian cleared his throat, and politely did not finish his thought.

“A chain is still a chain, whether made of iron or gold,” Solas remarked.

Dorian laugh. “You’re delightfully pessimistic, Solas.”

“Or pragmatic.”

Amused, Dorian continued, “Forgive my interrogation, I’ve simply been fascinated by the subject for some time. I had never thought I would meet one in my lifetime, and there is only so much historical texts covering somniari. I’m certain I’ve them all. Though, the language on the subject is often rather guarded, of course. Even in Tevinter, mystery abounds.”

“Written history is rarely free of bias, or narratives reflecting what those in power desire it to,” Solas informed.

“Predictably,” Dorian agreed. “Still, I have a few rather interesting texts on the matter, if you were so inclined to peruse them. Perhaps you can dispel some of the mystery for me.”

It seemed that he was attempting to bridge the distance between them, in his own fumbling way. However much Solas appreciated Dorian’s attempts at something resembling friendship, he was presently much more interested in another’s company.

“Another time, perhaps,” Solas replied.

“Of course,” Dorian conceded, graciously. As he turned to leave, he feigned remembering something rather important, before cheerily informing, “I do believe I saw our Herald heading toward the chantry, as it were.”

With a cheeky grin, Dorian excused himself and returned inside the tavern.

Agitated, Solas followed the road towards the chantry, leaving before anyone else decided to engage him in conversation.

He did not care what Dorian might have assumed regarding Lavellan and himself. What it was, or what it might become, did not belong to Dorian or to any of the others. And for her sake, and what little remained of her privacy among the Inquisition, he would stoke no flames of gossip if it could be helped. He had not intended to follow her, as she had made herself clear on speaking with him at a later time, but his concern for her state of mind overrode his hesitations. He was not the only one aware of how frayed she’d become in the last few weeks, but none had acted beyond a word or two of concern — which she continually shrugged off, and stubbornly carried on as if she were immune to the trappings of her own mortality.

She had not slept much since leaving Redcliffe. Scant hours, at best, any given day. Some nights, her mind never touched the Fade, and when it did she was never in the dreaming long enough for him to intervene, to still the nightmares which plagued her. If she were a dreamer, he would offer to teach her to master her dreams and banish the needless grief hounding her sleep. As it were, the best he could do was his best to dispel what he could, when the chance presented itself.

The grounds surrounding the chantry were sparsely populated, as most were gathered down beyond the gates in celebration. He expected it would last well into the early morning hours. Still, there were a few here absorbed in quiet work, and a group of children at play in the courtyard. None bothered him as he moved to find a quiet spot near the entrance of the chantry, to wait for when the Herald would inevitably leave the building.

As he often did, in quiet moments free of distraction or immediate obligations, he found himself thumbing through the journal she’d lent him. Her secrets were still safe from him, as he had not cracked the cipher, but even their unfathomable knot-work of ink had become familiar beneath his fingertips. But most of all, he enjoyed the simple sketches which inhabited nooks and corners of the pages.

He turned to where he’d tucked the drawing she had made for him, so many months ago. The black which signified the blanket of night covering the woods were not simply a wash of ink, but a careful repetition of lines in ebb and flow, which gave life and movement to the image. It made the stark white absence, carefully shaped as moths, all the more striking.

Solas traced the lines with his thumb, as he had before, admiring her work. It was neither poor nor terribly remarkable in skill, but it was hers — her perspective — and that made it dear to him. Fortunately, she had chosen to draft the image in ink, rather than charcoal, which would have long ago yielded beneath his repeated tracings in private moments to himself.

It was a foolishly sentimental thing to do — to fondle the lines as though they were somehow her, and not simply ink. Or that it could convey his sentiment to her, the way he could reach through the Fade to still her nightmares and calm her dreaming.

Only now tracing the lines turned his thoughts to the memory of her hands, to the lines that creased her palms — to the intimacy and comfort of touch she’d so readily offered.

Heat pooled in his stomach, at the memory of her skin against his, and at the liberties he’d taken with her — his fingers straying up the length of her arm and spurring her to take him into her arms.

Despite his overwhelming caution and hesitation with her, the smallest touch she offer drove him to return it tenfold. That experience alone was something he would cherish in his memories for rest of his existence, but it was the thought that she might touch him again that had haunted him since that night.

Had her hand lingered a moment longer on the nape of his neck, he was certain he would have kissed her. Or, more true to his nature, he was certain he would have unraveled on the spot with the unbearable hope that she would kiss him.

It was a strange dance between them, this ebb and flow, of orbit and gravitation — where he waited in the lull for her to act first, to permit him to respond in kind.

If he was certain of anything, it was that he would be little more than simmering ash long before he could ever know the touch of her mouth to his — if ever.

He could think of worst ends, than this unhurried self-immolation.

“You’ve grown fond of her.”

Solas did not startle at Kazem’s sudden observation, and kept his sudden annoyance reigned in. “And you have grown bold with your opinions,” he replied in a clipped tone, as he tucked the drawing back into the interior pocket of his vest.

“When have you ever known me not to be?” Kazem fixed him with a brief look of amusement, as he added, “ _My lord._ ”

“You were much more hesitant to voice them when you were still slightly taller than a dwarf,” Solas remarked.

“Most green-eared youths are,” Kazem agreed, with a laugh. He settled against the wall of the chantry, as he took in the sight of Haven around them. “A bit of peace then, for the civilians. They’re certainly enjoying it. Do you suppose it will last?”

“Of course not,” Solas replied. “The Elder One has been shamed too many times since her original intervention. Reprisal is inevitable, but ego will drive him to act decisively to retain his position amongst his followers. A god cannot afford to suffer the appearance of weakness, lest they risk losing the devotion which makes their position possible. I imagine his next move will require personal intervention.”

The jovial agent was suddenly quite serious, as he asked, “Do you expect it so soon?”

“Do you not? Only a fool would bask in such a minor victory,” Solas advised. “This matter won’t be resolved until the Elder One is dealt with directly. Until then, expect reprisal. See that our scouts double their patrols.”

Kazem gave a sharp nod, and departed swiftly to carry out his orders.

He’d only just tucked away the journal, when Seeker Pentaghast exited the chantry.

A quick glance confirmed that his agent was far enough away from him as to not arouse her curiosity, or any particular inclination of either being known to one another. Simply a passerby, and nothing of interest to her.

Instead, she was immediately and entirely focused on him, much to Solas’s exasperation.

Perhaps it was a jest, on Dorian’s part, to send him off on a fool’s errand for the Herald. And it was, of course, far more likely to find Cassandra in the proximity of the chantry than it was to find the Herald. Beyond the meetings and debriefings, she spent as much of her time away from there as she could.

Or, perhaps, forces beyond him conspired to throw all but Lavellan into his path that evening.

Wherever she’d been heading before was quickly forgotten, as the woman moved to stand beside him. Gazing up at the scarred sky above them, she mused, “It is written that the Maker created the Veil when he made this world for us, separate from the Fade.”

It was clear there was more on the Seeker’s mind than simple Andrastian history.

Solas clasped his hands at the small of his back, as he noted, “It is said — that is true enough.”

“Have you seen differently in the Fade?”

Her curiosity surprised him just as much as his own slip.

Much of his time in uthenera, as well as the previous year in the waking world, had been spent poring over his memories, over every moment it had taken to craft and enact the spell which had raised the Veil. He had done so while still in the dreaming dark, and even after he’d awakened, looking for answers, looking for where his spell had gone awry. In the end, fundamentally, the spell had served its precise purpose — it had locked away the evanuris and prevented them from further destroying the world.

It was already in peril in his time — on a slow path to dying — but had he left the evanuris to their own devices, it would have long since have perished. The Veil was by no means a permanent solution, it had meant to buy him time, to consider a better way to deal with the evanuris and to heal the world of the damage they had wrought. He had anticipated that blocking the Fade from the waking world would cause a great measure of havoc; raising the Veil had not been a decision made lightly, and the increasing frenzy of bickering and war between the evanuris had driven to drastic measures to save what he could of what was left of a crumbling world — just as removing it would cause panic and destruction in this world.

None of which he could readily tell the Seeker.

Nor the irony of her faith centering on the idea that their Maker created the Veil for _them_ — however pervasive Andrastian faith was now, it originated with humans. That it had ultimately benefited the humans in taking power in Thedas had not been his original intent, merely one of many unintentional byproducts of a spell cast in desperation.

“I have not seen your Maker raising the Veil in any memory I have found, no,” he replied, carefully.

Of all in the Inquisition, there were few others he guarded his words and intent with as much as he did with Cassandra. Her spirit-touched mind had an uncanny aptitude for sensing deception in others, and it often kept him on his toes and dancing around truths he could not afford to give. If those of her order were on par with her skill, then the Seekers were a formidable force to be reckoned with.

If Cassandra was disappointed, she did not show it. Instead, she lapsed into silence as she followed wherever the path her thoughts took her to. After a time, she asked, “Do you think they were once joined? This world, and the Fade?”

It was a question he would have expected from the Herald, and not Cassandra.

So much of this world, and its people, continued to surprised him.

“I think that is a logical assumption, Seeker,” he mused. “Just as a dam might separate a river from itself, it once was and always will be a river.”

“Before the Breach, I had not considered how fighting in our world might affect the Fade. Is it always thus, Solas?”

“The scope and magnitude of the Breach is unprecedented in our history, as no other event has come close in the scope of how many spirits have been pulled through against their will,” he informed. “But, yes. Every war, no matter how just, leads to hunger and rage. And so come the demons.”

“It is often said that generals should avoid fighting in the same battlefield too many times, lest they provoke the appearance of demons,” Cassandra said. “I had once thought that simply superstition, but since the Breach opened I have learned the truth of it.”

“The deaths, the rage — all of it weakens the Veil.”

It had never meant to be a permanent structure — if one could ascribe it as such — and he doubted that he ever could have had the strength to do so, nor would he wish to. It had nearly killed raising it in the first place, and he had always intended to bring it down again. He would never had intended to subject his people, or any other, to such a fate.

As it were, he could not do such without reclaiming the Anchor, nor without reclaiming his strength. It would take time to for that, and even now, the Veil was too unstable to bring down. Repairs would have to be made, and the artifacts he’d left to insure its integrity would need to be reactivated, so that he could do so as safely and as measured as one could.

Still, it was a matter for another time.

“But nothing is ever said of the effect war has upon the world of spirits, what we might be doing to them,” Cassandra mused, almost casually.

It floored him to hear the Seeker consider — even briefly — the state of the Fade and its inhabitants. As a human, and an Andrastian, he had not expected such consideration, given how central the demonization of all spirits was to the Chantry’s belief system.

“Every war has unintended victims. All too many go unnoticed,” Solas replied. He considered Cassandra for a moment, before adding, “You surprise me, Seeker. I had not thought you one to express such nuance on subjects such as these.”

Cassandra was not one to endure compliments, and simply frowned as she turned her attention out to the revelers bustling beyond the courtyard. “Whatever we were before all of this, we have all become agents of change within the Inquisition. What I know of the world is constantly challenged by the things we face, and the decisions we make. The Chantry has historically resisted progress that did not benefit itself, over the people it served. The Divine was all too aware of that, before she died. Much of the Chantry’s teaching of spirits is rooted in fear of spirits, and much harm has been done because of it. I refuse to fear wherever truth and change will take us, in the end.”

“Well said,” he commended.

An admirable goal, as any could be.

Flustered, she shifted the subject from herself as she asked, “And our Herald? If not an agent of divine providence, then what do you believe her to be?”

Endlessly stubborn, much to his annoyance. And a fixed point in all of the uncertainty and chaos of this world, to which nearly all of his waking thoughts turned to.

“The hinge upon which all our aspirations turn — whether divine, or not,” he replied, simply.

“I had my doubts, in the beginning,” the Seeker confessed.

“As any reasonable individual might have,” Solas agreed. He’d certainly had his share of them. “And now?”

The look of certainty on the woman’s face was enviable. For him, everything was cast in doubt. Certainty, on his part, was a fool’s errand. Hubris had ruled him, once. His path now had no place for it.

“I believe in her,” Cassandra replied, seemingly affirming it to herself as much as she was affirming it to him. “Whether it was the will of the Maker which put her on this path, I cannot say. Regardless of her—” the Seeker cast a quick glance to Solas’s ears, before looking away once more “—origin, she has acted with more grace than those of the faith, and for it she has my respect. She has acted where the Chantry continues to fight amongst itself, and she has given shelter to those others have ignored. Wherever this path ends, I will follow her. I have given my word that I would, and I mean to keep it.”

“It must speak to her character, to have risen from being your prisoner to gaining such admiration in such a short time,” he noted. “An admirable goal, nonetheless. I as well intend to see this through until its end, and am pleased to be led by one such as herself.”

It was my failing to let suspicion and obstinance rule my better judgement,” Cassandra replied, chiding herself. “It was her character that proved itself true. I am proud of where she has led us so far. I have confidence in her, and hope that she leads us all into a better future.”

“Hope is a precious thing, but nothing is more dangerous than the loss of it,” Solas warned. “Take care how you reach for it, Seeker.”

“Ever the optimist,” Cassandra huffed, in amusement.

“I did not live this long without being pragmatic about the world, and its people.”

“Perhaps that is so,” she conceded. “Still, I have faith.”

“An admiral thing, in these dark times.”

“You are mocking me,” Cassandra sighed.

“On the contrary, Seeker,” Solas replied. “I admire the purity of your principles, and I believe your Maker is unworthy of your faith.”

Flustered, the Seeker complained, “I had not thought you one to stoop to flattery, Solas.”

“I had meant it sincerely,” Solas assured.

“Just as well,” Cassandra conceded. “If you will excuse me, I have other matters I must see to.”

“Of course,” Solas replied, inclining his head in acknowledgement as the Seeker took her leave of him.

He did not want to think of the Veil, or the Fade, or what lay ahead of him — least of all, his duty. Not tonight.

All that wanted, and hoped for, was simply a moment with her to apologize for hurting her the other day. He wasn’t foolish enough to hope for anything beyond that, but the greedy ache in his chest beat out a terrible longing for another stolen moment of connection with her. A look, or a word, or a touch — anything that she would see fit to give him.

The mission was not simple by any measure, but it was a direct path. It did not call for detour nor distraction, only practicality — to pick the battles he could win, to remember his goals, and to do nothing which did not further them.

Which made dealing with her all the more difficult, as she was both central to his mission and an increasing distraction from his goals. Somewhere along the way, things between them had become complicated.

And now, his emotions were locked in the flux between risk and reward, and proximity was an indulgence he could scarcely resist.

 _You truly are an old fool_ , he chided himself. To be led so easily astray by the slightest touch of her hand.

Still, he could not help but consider another matter as he waited there for her — that her interest in him might be artificial, as was the Veil, with both originating from the same source.

Was it the Anchor which drew her to him — the magic simply seeking its source — or was her interest in him purely of its own volition? Had his magic altered her in some way? Was the woman he knew now the same woman who walked into the sacred temple, unmarked and free of the Anchor’s magic? Or was she something else now?

The implications otherwise were concerning.

He could not bear to think of her under the influence of the Anchor, of her affection for him being born of a geas.

A fool would cling to the waning strands of hope, and ignore the fraying rope and the inevitable fall to follow. It would be so easy to get lost in a dream, as many unwary young dreamers in his day found themselves, much to their peril. But he needed certainty; he needed truth.

Of course, the only certainty was that he would surely find the answer alongside trouble. And ever the fool, he was drawn toward seeking the truth, regardless of the peril nesting with it.  
  
  
  


———  
  
  
  


She had never meant to return to this place, and yet she was drawn by the knowledge that they’d confined the magister in the very prison they’d once imprisoned her in.

A strange sort of irony, that he was charged with a crime much as the one they had initially thought her guilty of. One she was certainly guilty of now, even if she was the only one who seemed to think so.

It seemed so far away, now — waking chained and bewildered — and yet the resentment was fresh in her bones as she walked the halls of the chantry prison. It wasn’t the damp chill that permeated the stone masonry that made her skin prick and crawl, but the memories of the inhumane treatment she’d endured from her captors.

What use was a faith, if its foundations stood on such a place? On such practices? What god would ask such things of its people?

She carefully avoided the low hanging brazier, which she had once been intimately acquainted with; she was half-certain there was still a bump in her skull from the earlier collision. Just looking at it made her head throb.

Tephra found the magister sitting slumped against the wall of his cell. He wasn’t afforded the privacy her cell had — simply three walls forming an alcove, and a row of bars.

Alexius did not acknowledge her approach, simply continued to stare at his own hands in his lap as he asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your son is being escorted safely back home to Tevinter with a full guard of Inquisition soldiers at his back,” she replied, simply. “ I thought you should know.”

“What is safe, to one who is already dead? He is no safer there, than anywhere in this world.” The magister’s brow furrowed, as he sighed heavily, “He would have been safe, had I not failed. Had you not—”

“Had I not let you break this world?”

Alexius met her gaze, finally, and sighed.

It was a broken, quiet thing, just as his submission to defeat had been.

He looked on her with pity, as he asked, “You think yourself above making such choices? Wait, dear Herald, until a day comes and you are faced with losing someone you love. When you’re offered even the smallest shred of hope to save them from such a fate, you will see what you are truly capable of.” He looked away again, “Then we will talk as equals of the terrible choices this world forces on us, and those we love.”

She did not want to feel empathy for this man who would have ruined a world to save one life, but still she felt its stab deep in her chest as she thought of her brother. Of what she might have done, if it meant saving him. Of what she’d done to save those who dwelt around her now, who called themselves companions. Of Solas, and the memory of his blighted kiss stinging across her lips.

But mostly of him, who had died too young — whose loss had worn holes through every part of her heart. Whose memories still echoed in those hollows, and would never leave her.

“And what have I now, but a slow wait to an inevitable end?” the magister lamented, in a ragged tone.

“You have no right to grieve your lot,” Tephra seethed.

She was outraged at his audacity to feel sorry for himself, after what he’d done — would have done.

“Not after what I saw in the future you and your people would have made,” she continued. “You speak of ends as though your path did not lead you to another ending itself. I can assure you that anything you face here will be kinder than what awaited you there.”

“Your lies will not torment me, Herald,” Alexius warned. “There is nothing greater in this world to me, than the loss of Felix. Your words are nothing more than the chill in the air pricking at my ears.”

Tephra scoffed, “What use would it be to lie to you? You’ve already lost, and I’m not cruel enough to try.”

“Perhaps that is so,” he conceded. The magister lapsed into to silence, for a time. When he spoke again, his tone was soft with emotion. “It is simply that I love my son. It is everything, and nothing, and matters no more. When he dies, so shall I — even if this body persists.”

And with that, the rage of her emotions snuffed out like a candle wick.

“The future you thought your Elder One would bring was nothing but ruin,” she informed. Her tone was an almost gentle, as she added, “You didn’t save him there, no more than you could save him here.”

He gave her a wounded scowl, as he demanded, “What do you gain in telling me such things?”

“Nothing,” she replied, simply.

Not even the lessening of her own burdens.

Why had she come here? To torment to magister, as he had accused her of doing?

There was no point to; his own grief would see to that.

She moved to leave, but hesitated and said, “Mourn your son, not your lot. It’s the only honest thing left to you, Alexius.”

With that, she left the man to stew in his own failures.

“Have a care, Herald,” the magister called after her in warning. “Gods do not fall graciously.”

_Whatever he is, he is no god — only a coward who hides beyond the battlefield._

She did not know what had prompted her to seek out the magister, let alone to speak with him. The grief and dread in her gut was no better for it, and had only deepened and soured.

She was supposed to be celebrating with all the others, and yet she could not shake the impending sense of something terrible coming. Something worse than what they’d left in that aborted future. The air was heavy with a stillness despite the clamor of celebration — like the calm before a storm. She felt it and knew it to be true, the way animals knew to take shelter long before the winds began to pick up.

She wanted to shake it off, to dismiss it, but nothing seemed to alleviate it.

Tephra knew that she would seek him out before she left the chantry, and it didn’t surprise her to find him waiting just outside the entrance.

Stubborn as always, and worse — patient.

He’d endure her punishment as long as she was willing to dispense it.

It was a strange dance between them, this push and pull against the other’s boundaries — whatever _this_ was.

It was selfish to seek him out when stress wore her spirit threadbare, to depend on the simple calm she felt in his company. Even when she was cross with him, she preferred his presence to the others.

Hands locked together at the small of his back, Solas was the spitting image of a man trying very hard to hold himself apart from the world around himself. Yet he was here, waiting for her, despite how much of a shit she’d been to him since their spat at the rift the other night.

What had hurt him in the past so terribly to have driven to such distances? She had been, for some time now, been acutely aware of the loneliness he carried and how carefully he guarded himself from those around him.

It made her feel worse, for having spent the better part of the day sending him away and avoiding his company.

Perhaps that had been what his other self had meant? That this “path” of loneliness was wrong. Perhaps that had been why he’d called himself a fool, and acted like a man dying of thirst when she’d kissed him. But given that it was Solas, she reckoned it was something far complicated than that.

Solas considered her a moment, before he asked, “Did you speak with the magister?”

“Would it matter if I had?”

“You should not court grief,” he advised, brow furrowed. “It makes for a terrible lover, and so often is corrupted into despair.”

Tephra recalled, briefly, the demons she had encountered who bore that name. Pitiful, if incredibly dangerous creatures.

“You say as though you speak from personal experience.” She shot him an arch look, and asked, “Do you court many spirits, Solas?”

A cough caught in his throat, and she nearly laughed at the look which crossed his face.

She kept her amusement tightly reigned in, but could not help the smile tugging at her mouth as she watched him flounder with embarrassment.

“I—” he began, and promptly stopped. He considered his words a moment, ears flushing a funny shade of red, before starting once more, “It is not—”

“The sky is never going to look the way it did before, will it?”

Her questioned relieved him of finishing whatever explanation he might have had on whether or not he had, in fact, ever wooed a spirit.

Though given his fixation on the Fade, she wouldn’t have been entirely surprised. That a person could, if one were so inclined—yes. But Solas having done so? Not so much.

Who could begin to guess at how deeply his interests ran in such things?

Tephra swallowed a laugh at her own absurd humor on the matter, and moved to stand beside him. She mirrored his body language, and locked her hands behind her back as she looked up at the sky.

“Calm once more,” Solas replied. “I cannot say with any certainty what it will look like a year from now, nor a century. It may heal, or it may remain as a reminder of what one man’s hubris can accomplish.”

“But it’ll still come down some day, like you said before,” she said, thinking of their previous conversation on the subject and how he had confirmed her fear that one day the Veil would come down, regardless of whether or not she closed the Breach.

She fell into a brooding silence, as she thought of Redcliffe and the shattered skies and all of those terrible red rocks. But he had said that had been the work of the Elder One, that it had been torn down.

Would the result be the same, if the Veil wore away on its own?

Tephra turned her attention back to him, as she asked, “What do you suppose that will be like?”

His brow furrowed, as Solas considered her words. “I presume that would largely depend on the mechanism of how the Veil is removed, whether by the slow erosion of time, or by violent artificial means. There is likely a multitude of factors which may affect the outcome. As it has yet to be done presently, it is difficult to say with any certainty on the matter.”

When she said nothing further, Solas shifted a step closer and she watched the previous tension return in the hard lines of his shoulders. As though he were preparing himself for however she might respond; as though he were bracing himself for impact.

 _Put the poor man out of his misery. He’s suffered enough_.

Tephra felt a sudden shame, for having turned him away. So often, and so consistently, since that night at the rift.

All of it could have been resolved sooner, had she not been so ridiculously stubborn and prideful. What she had with him was closer, and deeper than anyting she had with any of her other companions, and arguably with anyone back home in her clan. Would she have really risked its loss over such a petty thing as his discomfort with her airing her griefs?

“I wanted to speak with you,” he said, as she expected him to. “Of our last meeting, before the Breach.”

“I know,” she replied, remorse sobering her tone. “It’s alright, Solas. You don’t have to apologize.”

The rigid set of his shoulders eased, and the soft look which crossed his face was almost too much to bear.

She hoped that she would never make him feel as though his company were unwanted again, neither intentionally, nor by mistake.

“It was my fault, anyway. I overstepped, and assumed that—” Tephra gave a short, sharp huff. More useless words. Fault didn’t matter, not really. A pressing sense of urgency thrust her towards all that she hadn’t quite had words for, until now. “Whatever reasons you have for keeping to yourself as you do, Solas, they’re valid. And I respect your right to privacy, I truly do, but I don’t want to keep anything from you. And I can’t do this Herald thing if I can’t trust anyone. If I can’t just be myself with someone.”

That still felt like laying blame at his feet for how that argument had transpired.

“I mean that without expectation of reciprocation, or any obligation to endure whatever ridiculous things I might put upon you,” she corrected, still feeling like a rambling fool. Her ears were burning, as she continued, “It’s just that I feel like I can trust you, even with the hard things. I _do_ trust you. All you’ve done to keep me alive, to look after me, to challenge my perspective, to keep me—”

— _myself_.

There was a complicated knot of emotion, tight in her chest.

Solas said nothing as he watched her, but his presence was enough — _there_ , just so. She let the gravity of him pull her, as she leaned into reassurance, against him.

Arm to arm, just enough to confirm that he was still there — still alive.

Still Solas.

“I just hope that you know you can trust me, too,” she managed, finally, after a moment of staggered silence.

“That means more to me than you may know,” Solas replied, a bit hoarsely, as though some knot of emotion clutched at his chest as well. “Whatever you have need of me, you need only ask.”

Side to side, arm to arm, she could not bear to meet his gaze. Instead, she shut her eyes a moment, and focused on breathing and simply being beside him. Of all the things she had no control of in her life now, this was something she could. At least on her part of the matter.

Whether he reciprocated or not was out of her hands, yet still, she was compelled to be honest with him. However she could, even if it was just this — even if she didn’t know, or feared examining the depth of what _this_ was.

Still, she could not help but tease him as she said, “Careful now, Solas. I might start thinking that you care about me.”

The sudden seriousness in his tone drew her gaze, as he replied, “If I have not been implicit enough on the matter, that is my own failing.”

She had not meant to incite him to prove otherwise, and when he reached for her she felt her stomach plummet to her ankles. The edge of his palm brushed hers, ever so slightly.

An act of reassurance, however covert.

The gentleness of his touch elicited something sharp and clutching in her chest, and there was a heaviness that weighed on that small point of contact between them, in what remained unspoken. She could feel the tension in the air around him, as surely as she felt it in her own bones.

Fear, apprehension — _expectation_.

Both of them halted and stalled, in that small space, waiting for the other to act, or to possibly flee.

Despite his perpetual calm and composure, the stiff lines of his posture betrayed his tension, and his rapt attention to even the smallest of movements she made, betrayed—

_Hope?_

—as he awaited whatever decision she might make, beyond this simple point of contact.

It was terribly indulgent of her to savor the tension between them, and she wasn’t cruel enough to draw it needlessly out for vanity's sake, but he spoke before she could formulate even the decision to act.

“You are right, of course,” Solas continued, his tone contrite. “What happened mattered. Matters, still. It was not my intention for it to seem otherwise, or to hurt you in dismissing the subject out of hand. I had only meant to spare you further pain attempting to put into words what words fail.”

Her grief warred with the sudden appreciation of acknowledgement — of someone finally looking at her and seeing that she wasn’t fine, wasn’t shouldering all of the ridiculous amounts of terrible things she had to carry, without avoiding it or politely looking away.

His acknowledgement was a lancing needle to the wound, drawing out its poison — even if just a bit.

“You were all dead,” Tephra confessed, suddenly and with too much emotion. She bit back the other griefs scrambling to spill forward in an ugly heap, afraid that she’d crossed that line again. That he might react as he had before.

She had expected him to withdraw, to admonish her as he had the night before, but he kept his silence. His hand shifted against hers, moving as though he meant to take it in his own.

Tephra took a sudden breath and sighed sharply, before abruptly stepping away from him.

It was too much — the pain still too fresh.

He was alive, here, but in her mind he was boneless on the floor, dead and gone from the world, and it hurt her in a way she couldn’t begin to quantify. She could not reconcile the reality of both, existing, together and apart.

“You were all dead, or close enough. The world was dead,” she continued, in a raw tone. “Whatever remained, I killed it coming back here.”

“Yes,” Solas replied, simply. “And you had no choice. It was the only path left to you.”

Acknowledgement — confirmation — shattered inside her, brittle and hollow.

There was no going back to fix it, or to do something differently. She could only carry it, and perhaps one day let it go.

There was only now, and with sudden clarity she realized that it would always be the only thing she ever truly had in this mad, unpredictable world they lived in.

Only now.

“The path is wrong,” she blurted, without hesitation. Without any knowledge of what his future self had meant by it, or its implications or possible repercussions. With only the knowledge that he’d pleaded with her of its importance.

His brow furrowed, and his eyelids fluttered, as he said, “I don’t—”

She barreled on before she lost her nerve, or before he could form a coherent protest, “Whatever that means, for better or worse, you _insisted_. It was worth dying for, to you. It mattered to you, so it matters to me.”

A numb silence settled between them, and Solas was visibly stunned by her words. He looked as if she had physically struck him.

She didn’t know if it was the right thing to do — telling him what his other self had confessed — but she could not keep it secret, not with so many other griefs burdened away in the hollows of her self. She had no room for it. And she did not wish to keep anything secret from him, even if it was a hard truth.

Solas held his silence, as panic and fear seemed to seep away from his expression as he regained his composure. It shifted toward something more inexplicable, and guarded.

“I’m sorry if you didn’t want to hear that, Solas, but I can’t carry your death alone. It’s too much,” Tephra confessed, before stepping away and taking a deep breath. It shook and shivered through her chest, clutched tight with emotion.

She felt as though she were bleeding out over everything in her life, as though she were wounded in a way that could not be patched nor staunched.

Tephra looked out over the darkening town, still full of life and celebration. It felt remote to her, and too close all at once.

She wanted to be away from the noise and the merriment.

She wanted something to match the intensity of her grief, to drown it out.

“It was as real as this one. As real as you and me. And I killed it,” she said, quietly. “You said it, before, that anything can die. Even the world. And I can’t—”

 _Lose you_.

“I can’t do this without you — without them. This Herald thing, it’ll swallow me whole. That’s all I am to them, most of the time. But you keep me myself. You keep me rooted, and I need that. I need—”

The answer to that was vast, and unfathomable. His hand touching hers was a start, one she would gladly chase into the next frightening unknown, but why was it so hard to admit, even to herself?

Every person she had ever loved had left this world, and it had made her fearful of ever getting close enough again to risk mourning them when they inevitably left her life once more.

Solas moved to stand beside her once more, and said, “My behavior the other night was untoward, but your reciprocation was not unwelcome.”

His statement relieved her of continuing her fumbling confession as he effectively changed the subject, however clinical and distanced he phrased it.

Tephra snorted in amusement, “You don’t have to apologize for letting me touch you, Solas. Especially when I’m the one who started it.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, breaking the carefully calm demeanor he was projecting. Despite that, he said, “I am not sure I should have encouraged it.”

She couldn’t help but to tease him, “Is it too dangerous for a solitary apostate? To be caught holding hands with—”

“The Herald of Andraste,” he reminded.

Truth took the wind out of her sails.

Solas almost looked contrite, “I’m—”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, flatly.

“Not for that — your title, your position is unavoidable. You cannot afford to forget it,” he clarified. His gaze swept across her face, briefly, before reconnecting with hers. “No, I am speaking to the previous night, for having dismissed your concerns before. For that, I am truly—”

The deafening sound of horns filled the air, and drowned out what else he might have said.

Tephra turned in the direction of the main gates, frowning, “Those are—”

Why would they sound the horns?

Was there a scouting party departing that she was unaware of?

She could think of no other reason for them to sound the horns, unless perhaps for—

_Oh, no._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one is happier that I finally finished this chapter than I am. Fight me on that.


	18. Once One Begins, There Are Only Endings Pt. I

It has come to seem there is no perfect ending.  
Indeed, there are infinite endings.  
Or perhaps, once one begins,  
there are only endings.  
_—Louise Glück, Faithful and Virtuous Night_

 

 

 

Stillness settled over Haven when the horns fell silent, and confusion quickly followed. If there were any indication as to what had prompted the warning to be sounded, it was not immediately clear to her. In the absence of clarity, the uneasy feeling that had nested in her stomach all evening intensified.

Eyes locked at the horizon beyond the gates, Tephra said, “Whatever happens, Solas — don’t die.”

He moved to stand beside her once more, following her gaze, “I would appreciate if you would do the same.”

As the horns sounded once more — a final warning for whatever was coming — Tephra reached to grasp the collar of his jerkin. Her hand fisted there in the fabric, and trembled.

A cold terror seized her, as she recalled the magister’s words.

_“Have a care, Herald. Gods do not fall graciously.”_

She knew in that moment that the Elder One had finally come for her — for them all — and for the first time in years, she felt that singular fear that belonged to the possibility of losing those who had become close to her.

She had already lost him once, in some form, in that aborted future; she would not lose him here.

Tephra shifted closer and pulled Solas down to meet her, forehead to forehead. The end of his nose brushed hers, as she reiterated, “Don’t die.”

As others began to rush from the chantry to see what was happening, she pushed Solas from her path and headed for the gates. A strange sort of calm settled over her as crossed the courtyard. She motioned at one of the soldiers, and barked, “Get those kids in the chantry, now!”

_They wouldn’t have sounded the horns this many times if it wasn’t serious._

Many of her companions joined her on the way to the gates, as well as her advisers. Civilians milled and idled in the streets, muttering to one another nervously as she and other soldiers continued on to the gates. Each anxious gaze she met forced her to keep her face still and calm. It would be worse if they panicked, and there were too many children amongst them that would end up trampled in the resulting hysteria.

She found the Commander at the gates, shouting orders to the soldiers who’d assembled there. Nearly half of them were out of armor and scrambling to pull on what they’d managed to grab before scrambling to the gates. She was certain that more of them were still drunk from the festivities.

 _This will not end well_ , she thought, grimly.

For once, she was grateful that she wasn’t inebriated, nor that she had changed out of her armor.

“Cullen?”

The Seeker’s voice sounded strangely tinny.

“We’re under attack,” he informed, in a grave tone.

“Are any of our people still out there?”

“Civilians, no,” Cullen replied. “We have scouts at numerous outlying locations, but none have made recent contact. It is likely they are captured, or dead.”

“That would explain why I received no ravens warning of the enemy’s approach,” Leliana mused darkly.

“Only one watch guard has reported in, as well,” the Commander continued. “There's a massive force, the bulk of which is descending over the mountain.”

“Under what banner?” Lady Montilyet asked.

“None.”

She balked. “None?!”

Tephra turned to Solas, who was once again at her side, “The Elder One?”

“Presumably,” he replied.

An unseen force crashed against the barred gates.

“Well, at least they’ve knocked first,” Dorian muttered, with grim amusement.

All around her, weapons were unsheathed. Light flashed beneath the gates — magic, or perhaps simply torchlight? — and the gates crashed once more. A force seemed to strain against it, nearly bending the thick metal bars which held them shut.

Her heart seemed to pound in her throat as she stepped closer.

“I can’t come in unless you open!” someone pleaded, from beyond the gates.

Tephra’s heart sank at how young he sounded, and how afraid. He could have been one of the scouts, or from one of the outlying farms, or anyone's son. He did not sound like the enemy. She rushed to unbar the gates before anyone could stop her, though none did. Several soldiers helped to raise the heavy bars, before pulling the gates open to let her through.

She was greeted by the sight of an approaching soldier, clad in unfamiliar armor. He staggered heavily toward her, before slumping to his knees and falling face-first into the snow.

At once, she was aware of the young man occupying the space where the soldier had been. Suddenly there, as though he hadn't been just before. Blinked into reality, like the wick of a candle flickering to life in the dark. A ragged thing, brandishing bloodied daggers, and a ponderously oversized—

 _The ghost_.

She remembered him from the mass funeral that was held after their caravan had been attacked by bandits on the road from the Crossroads, back when Solas had been gravely injured.

It seemed a lifetime ago.

When the soldier moved to intercept the young man, Tephra stopped them with a gesture.

Not a ghost, then, if her people could see him just as she could. Then how come no one else had before?

She regarded the young man with sharp curiosity.

_What is he?_

“I’m Cole,” he answered, as though he could divine her thoughts.

The brim of his ridiculous hat lifted, briefly, and pale eyes met hers. A soft, fleeting gesture, before urgency took hold of him and he entreated, “I came to warn you. To help!” He reached, but did not touch her as he emphasized, “People are coming to hurt you. The templars have come to kill you.”

Commander Rutherford reacted as though Cole had meant to harm her, and moved to intercept, but she stayed the Commander with a touch to the arm.

Sword half-drawn, Rutherford obediently shoved it back into the hilt. Vexed, he turned to her, “Is this the Order’s response to our talks with the mages? Attacking blindly?”

He seemed to be asking himself more than her, ruminating on the possibility aloud.

“The red templars went to the Elder One,” Cole clarified, and once more stepped close. “You know him? He knows you. You took his mages.”

He stepped away to point beyond the proving grounds, high up in the hills at the base of the mountain. It was too far to see much beyond the light of torches moving between the trees.

The Commander used a spyglass to see what she could not, and cursed beneath his breath.

“Someone you know?” she jested.

“One of my own, in another life,” Cullen admitted, grimly.

“And now?”

“Standing beside your Elder One. Maker’s Breath, it’s—” The Commander lowered his spyglass, at a loss for words. There was naked fear in the man’s eyes when he looked at her.

“A fool if it thinks we’ll surrender peacefully,” she offered, hoping to banish his doubt, which she understandably shared.

“He’s very angry that you took his mages,” the strange young man mused, behind her.

“Imagine what he’ll be when they decimate his forces,” she retorted, as though the Elder One could hear her challenge himself.

“Save it for the battlefield,” the Commander advised. “Haven is no fortress. If we are to withstand this monster, we must control the battle to come.”

Panic clutched at her chest as she thought of how many among their forces in Haven were non-combatants. She turned back to her people, “Leliana, the civilians need to be evacuated to safety.”

“There is only one road out of Haven,” Leliana reminded. She clasped her hands tightly behind her back, “At best, we might retreat into the chantry for safety until the fighting is over.”

Tephra thought of the apostates who’d locked themselves inside their cabin for safety, and how the templars had sealed them in and set it on fire.

“We haven’t the men to match theirs,” Blackwall stated, flatly. “We’ll be slaughtered before the sun rises.”

Leliana fixed him with a cold look, “Then what would you suggest we do?”

“I’d—”

“Retreat to the chantry,” Tephra cut the man off, before the two of them could further argue and waste what precious time they had left before the enemy arrived. “We can use the trebuchets to take out what we can of the army, before they draw close.”

The Commander nodded in agreement, “If we can trigger an avalanche, perhaps we can take more than few down before they reach us. We may yet survive the night.”

“Cassandra, Varric, Solas — with me,” she directed, before doubt could creep in. She had no idea what she was doing, or how they would do this — but a strange sense of momentum built as she continued, “The rest of you sweep the town and see that no civilian is left behind.”

“If you think I’m letting you go out there without me, you’re sorely mistaken,” Dorian protested. “Not that our apostate friend here isn’t a capable mage, of course.”

“Fine,” Tephra huffed. “The rest of you, go. Save those you can. We’ll buy you time.”

Cassandra met her gaze, “And then?”

 _I have no fucking idea_.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” she managed.

 _This is not going to end well_.

She turned to the rank of soldiers, “Now whose got a fucking bow I could borrow? Arrows, also, would be preferable.”

 

 

 

———

 

 

 

They’d brought the mountain down on the encroaching army, effectively burying a portion of the opposition forces beneath rock and snow, and stalling the rest from immediate approach. All around him, the soldiers cheered. The Herald stood ahead, unmoving, as she watched clouds of frost and rockdust settle over the now-silent foothills.

It seemed, for all of one breathless moment, a victory — until the roar of a dragon tore through the fragile facade of salvation.

Many took to their knees, rendered boneless with terror. Even he was not immune to the sudden, visceral fear which seized them all as he fell back several paces and braced himself for whatever may come. There was no time to worry for the others, only a mere moment for pure self-preservation. He rooted his staff to the ground, and threw up a quick barrier spell.

The trebuchet exploded in a shower of flaming debris, and the shock wave threw many of those around him to the ground. A soldier rolled and kicked beside him, tangled in a burning cloak. Solas blanketed him with a lesser frost spell to snuff the fire out.

His attention quickly shifted to locating the Herald among those who’d fallen. Relief washed over him at the sight of Cassandra hauling the elf to her feet, and brushing cinders from her coat. She did not appear to be injured.

Overhead, the beast circled wide and headed once more towards them. As it neared, a horrible realization dawned on him.

It wasn’t simply a dragon, not by any means they would know it as.

“That is—”

One of his own, once. In another life — in another world. Attendant to one of their most elevated. Twisted and blighted beyond its nature, rendered unrecognizable, and bound to the whim of this Elder One.

“—not possible!”

As the archdemon arced overhead, sending a stream of fire along the southern gates, Solas held his ground behind the barrier he’d cast to get a better look at it. Flaming debris showered over him as the dragon passed by, but the barrier held.

It had every appearance of an archdemon — of an Old God — but he did not have the strength to confirm it, nor to determine which of his previous kin it might have belonged to. The beast moved onward, turning its attention to Haven, sending massive gouts of flame down onto the buildings below.

Solas turned back to his companions, who he’d briefly forgotten in the chaos of the archdemon’s arrival. All of them were on their feet, but for the Herald. She was sitting on her knees, staring at the burning remains of the trebuchet.

And _laughing_.

“A dragon,” she tittered. “Why wouldn’t there be a dragon?”

“This is not the time to lose our shit, Snowflake,” Varric advised, hauling the elf up by her coat.

“A _dragon_ ,” she repeated, standing on wobbly legs and drawing the word out to highlight her disbelief.

“We can’t face it here,” the Seeker advised.

She was the only one among them that was not visibly shaken. Unsurprising, given that she was descended from renowned dragon-hunters.

“Today is well beyond making sense,” Dorian declared, breathless and shaken. “But that is a marvelous idea. The leaving part.”

The Seeker shoved Tephra in the direction of the gates, spurring her into motion. However startled she was by the dragon, she was at least unharmed from the last skirmish.

He’d also managed to avoid injury while assisting in readying and defending the trebuchets, despite how distracted he was with the Herald’s confession still ringing through his head. And even that — being confronted with his own self denouncing the carefully laid path of his mission, centuries in the making — had been crudely shoved aside in his mind by Compassion itself waltzing through the gates of Haven and declaring its intent to help.

A spirit made flesh — in this stolid world, cut off from the Fade. Not a simple possession, but having actually taken a body. Not impossible, but vastly improbable. Very few spirits had willingly crossed into the world after the Veil rose, and fewer still had taken bodies.

He’d even taken a name for himself.

And now, an archdemon had been loosed upon them all.

For that, he really could not fault the Herald for laughing.

What else could possibly happen before the night’s end?

At the gates, they were met by the Commander. Regardless of what he thought of the Templar Order as whole, Solas had to admit that the man was particularly effective at keeping his soldiers from panicking. Most of the soldiers were medics, including one of his agents — Kazem. The Herald’s companions had also regrouped there, with several of the refugees in tow.

“Seeker, did you see—”

“All of Haven has seen, Commander,” Cassandra replied, flatly.

Varric gave a huff, as he moved to sit and rest on the stone steps leading up into Haven proper, “The fires are a bit hard to miss, Curly.”

Blackwall eyed the dwarf with a salty expression, “Are we sitting now? Is that the plan?”

“Relax,” Varric griped. “I’m just catching my breath.”

“Why are there still civilians in the streets?” the Herald demanded, taking notice of the haggard-faced civilians idling amongst her companions.

The Iron Bull gave a dismissive snort, “Kind of hard to get them to safety when we’re ass-deep in templars, Boss.”

“Then we’ll sweep the town again,” she replied, simply. “No one gets left behind.”

Admirable, but ultimately foolish. Haven was on the cusp of being overrun, and with the archdemon hard at work reducing what remained to ash and rubble, there would be precious little to save.

And the cost?

He watched her brush sweat-soaked hair from her face, as she watched the rest of them with an expression that brooked no further argument. It was that — that fierce empathy for the fate of others, even in the face of her own peril — which had long-since secured his attention, his respect, and his foolish heart.

She would throw herself headlong into the abyss if it meant to save an innocent, but it was not just her life on the line.

The Anchor glimmered and sparked in her hand, roused by the fighting and the frantic pacing of her heart.

It was not just her life at peril, but also any hope for a future — for anyone.

“We have yet to address what we’ll do once we’ve tucked everyone all neatly inside the chantry,” Dorian mused. “You know, beyond simply serving ourselves up on a platter for the Elder One.”

Sera gave a derisive snort, “That shit’s a bit fish-in-a-barrel, isn’t it?”

The Herald looked between them with a sharp look of impatience, “Have either of you got a plan? Have any of you?” When none of them could muster a proper solution, she continued, “Blackwall, take Varric and Dorian and sweep the eastern streets.”

Before Dorian could form a protest, she held up a hand to cut him off as she continued, “We’re splitting into three groups. We’ve only got three mages, and the town is on fire. We’re not arguing this point.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, with a sigh.

The Herald turned to the others, and continued with a growing air of confidence, “Bull, you’ve got Vivienne and Sera. Take the main street. And remember to check everything — tents, wagons, everywhere. Children hide when they’re scared.”

A black-haired medic spoke up, “And us? What would you have of us?”

“Head straight for the chantry, and take these people with you,” she ordered, gesturing at the refugees amongst them. “We’re going to need all the medics we’ve got, if we survive this. See to the wounded there, until further notice.”

The medic ducked his head, “Yes, ma’am.”

It was the first time she’d spoken to them as a leader — as their Herald—and not with her previous resentment or reluctance. The steel and steadiness in her voice had an immediate effect on all of them, himself included. Though haggard and exhausted, the soldiers and their companions alike stood straighter, heartened by her show of strength and resolve.

However reluctant she had been to be their Herald, to be given the mantle of a leader — he found that in that moment, she wore it well.

“You heard the Herald — all of you back to the chantry!” The Commander turned to Cassandra, and said, “Keep our Herald safe.”

“Until my last breath,” the Seeker assured.

Cassandra did not see the tight, complicated look which Tephra shot her. By the time she readied her shield and sword, the moment had passed and the Herald’s face had smoothed back into one of focus and determination.

As the groups began to depart, the Commander shouted, “If those bastards mean to take us all, the least we can do is make them work for it!”

Solas fell into step beside the Herald, as they followed Cassandra down the western road. For the moment, there was nothing but the distant clamor of chaos and the crunch of snow and gravel beneath her boots.

The precarious nature of their current situation set his head and his heart into a constant skirmish between reason and emotion. He could have choked on all of the things he wanted to say to her, in the event that he would not be able to later. Yet he remained silent, content with comforting presence of her at his side.

“I told them they’d be safe here,” she said, quietly, as they walked.

Briefly, he thought of all those who had come to him for refuge, for safety, for freedom — and how utterly he’d failed them, in the end.

“It wasn’t a lie,” he assured.

Her brows knit together as she glanced at him, “Wasn’t it, though?”

She looked ahead once more, as they carefully skirted the burning rubble of a cabin. The Seeker made quick work of checking the interior of the premises, while Solas chose to follow Tephra around the perimeter, checking behind various crates and storage barrels.

Having found no one hiding back there, the Herald stopped and braced herself against the rear wall of the cabin, as though staggered by an unseen weight.

“All these people,” she said, knuckles gone white as her hand fisted against the wall. “I don’t even know their names, or their faces. They wanted to make things right, they wanted a better life for their children. I brought them here. I said I would keep them safe. And now they’re dying or dead because of me.”

Solas put his staff down to lean against the crates stacked against the cabin. He then stepped close to her, gut gripped with a familiar grief, “You can have all of the best intentions and give all that you have to give for them, and still fail. That does not mean it was a lie because you couldn’t keep your word. That is just life.”

Her dark eyes softened, as she reached for his hand.

It was a halting, hesitant gesture as her fingertips skimmed the back of his hand, before retreating.

Solas caught hold of her in a gentle clasp to reclaim that precious, fleeting point of contact.

“Templars! Coming over the gate!”

When Tephra moved to leave, he grasped at her arm with a sudden, startling urgency.

“Do not take any unnecessary risks. Please — stay close.” His throat tightened, choking on sentiment, as Solas hastily added, “To my barriers.”

“I don’t mean to die today, Solas,” she replied with a grin, before pulling free and slipping the bow off her shoulder.

With that, she bounded off to rejoin their companions out on the street.

Solas followed after, reclaiming his staff from where he’d left it standing against the crates. When he rounded the corner, he had all of a second to process the sight of a blighted templar swinging a sword at him — his mana surged, but half a breath too late.

He felt the bite of the blade skim the arm he’d brought up defensively, just before his spell blasted the templar off her feet. He staggered, clutching at his torn sleeve, which was quickly soaking with blood.

The Herald was on the woman who’d wounded him moments after she hit the ground. She straddled the templar and grappled with her, before prying the woman’s dagger free and shoving it hilt-deep into her eye.

The sounds of her agony were silenced when Tephra wrenched the dagger in a sickening twist.

Solas ignored the pain in his arm as he worked another spell, as he hurled a rain of fire down upon the templars charging Cassandra. The Seeker had been unaware of their advance, as she’d been preoccupied with driving back another, ramming him into the cabin wall with her shield. Several strikes of her armored fist rendered the man’s face to a bloody ruin.

With Varric and Tephra dispatching the last of them, Solas staggered to a crouch. He laid his staff down, before carefully peeling back his sleeve to get a better look at his wound.

“How bad is it?”

Cassandra knelt beside him, surveying the bloody gash with a critical eye.

There was no time for proper sutures. His hand burst alight, and he drew the fire across the wound to cauterize it. Solas grit his teeth, swallowing back all but a hiss of pain.

“It is nothing, now,” Solas replied, as he worked his sleeve back down and reclaimed his staff.

The Seeker offered a hand, and he let her haul him to his feet.

“A little help here!”

His attention shifted beyond the corpses of their enemies, to where Varric was struggling with the Herald.

He had her by the arm, boots slipping in the icy gravel as he attempted to keep her from rushing headlong into one of the cabins which lined the street. It was entirely engulfed, and a portion of it had already collapsed. Still, entering it would have been certain death, even with magic to carve a path through the fire. The building was likely to come down any moment.

Tephra shot the dwarf an accusatory look when he wouldn’t release his hold of her, before turning to Cassandra, “There’s children in there!”

The Seeker looked to the burning cabin, before looking to him.

He was the only one capable of clearing a path through the fire, after all.

“Solas, please. They’re in there,” Tephra entreated. “I heard them calling out.”

Solas strained his ears, but heard nothing but the roar of the fire and the cracking of burning wood. He met her gaze once more, “You’re certain?”

“Enough to bet my life on it.”

Why were mortals so terribly hasty to throw away their own precarious lives? One would think the finite nature of their existence would endow them with a greater sense of self-preservation.

Still, the lengths to which some of them went to preserve the lives of others — even strangers — would never cease to stagger him. By all rights, the transient nature of their own mortality should have made them more hesitant to risk it — and far choosier about the circumstances in which they might offer it up for another’s life.

The Herald seemed to sense his disapproval, as she pleaded, “Sathan, ma halani — please, trust me on this.”

Of course he trusted her.

She’d held his very own life in her hand, once, and kept him from slipping away to the Void.

“Ma nuvenin,” he responded. “But then we move for the chantry.”

“Okay, but—”

“Your word, Herald,” Solas interjected, in a firm tone.

“You have it,” she snapped in desperation, and thrust a hand towards the fire. “Now do it!”

It was a fool’s errand, but at least he’d prevented her from simply barreling inside as she had in the Hinterlands.

He took a moment to gauge the cabin’s structural stability and pool his mana. Using cold-based spells ran the risk of thermal shock, which could cause enough vibrational force to bring the cabin down. Creating a controlled vacuum would be an effective means of snuffing the fire out, with little direct force inflicted upon the structure. However, if there were actually any people inside—

“ _Solas_.”

Frustrated and flustered, Solas conjured a freezing spell and blanketed the cabin. It took all of his concentration to ensure that the spell snapped over the structure as a whole, all at once, and froze it solid before the shock could cause a collapse.

The Seeker unshouldered her shield and let it fall to the ground, before heading towards the cabin. When Tephra moved to follow, Cassandra rounded on her, “You will wait here.”

She stalked back towards Varric, who made no pretense of wishing to set foot inside the cabin.

Solas followed after the Seeker, who was already carefully picking her way through the frozen debris and into the cabin. Inside, much of what remained was still simmering, as he only endeavored to freeze the outer structure. An attempt at rescue would have been futile if he’d inadvertently frozen any potential survivors.

Several of the beams in the roof had come down, one of which had blocked off the main entrance. Those that remained, creaked and groaned under the weight of the ice.

“We would do well not to linger inside,” he warned, stepping lightly over the charred remains of a chair. “The structure will not hold for long.”

As if to accentuate his point, water had begun to run off the frozen roof overhead as the interior of the cabin remained a choking oven of heat. Despite the light radiating from innumerable charred surfaces, the smoke made it difficult to see.

Solas conjured an orb of veilfire to illuminate their path.

They found nothing in the main quarters of the cabin. All that remained was a small bedroom at the rear. When they drew close, they were greeted by the sight of two charred corpses, which lay at the bottom of the door. One over the other, having succumbed to the smoke.

The armor identified them as Inquisition — as their own.

“Perhaps we are too late,” the Seeker mused, crouching to retrieve the identification tags which all of the soldiers and scouts wore.

“It seems they were attempting to open the door,” Solas observed, gesturing at the pry marks in the frame. The knob glistened with frost, and when he put a hand to the door — which was hardly burnt at all — the door was cold.

It was not a result of his own spell.

Had one of the apostates hidden themselves inside?

Cassandra stood, tucking the tags away in a pocket, before readying herself to kick it in.

“A moment, Seeker,” Solas urged, before summoning a barrier around them.

If she brought the cabin down on them, he would prefer to avoid being crushed. He nodded at Cassandra once he was finished.

One heavy kick shattered the jamb and sent the door swinging inward, hanging off a single hinge.

A thick layer of smoke billowed out, obscuring any sign of survivors. The room was small, and hardly furnished. There were few places anyone could have been hiding that wouldn’t have been immediately obvious.

“Come out!” the Seeker called, as she held an arm to her face to avoid the smoke.

Nothing in the room moved, but the smoke.

 _A fool’s errand_.

“It is safe now,” Solas clarified, when no response came.

A head popped up from behind the bed in the far corner.

“Mister Solas?”

The girl stood, peering at him blearily through the dissipating smoke.

He’d almost dismissed the Herald’s claims outright, simply because the risk far outweighed any possible good that might have come of it.

And he would have been wrong.

Audra gave a tired, dimpled smile as she moved around the bed. She was all but shaking from relief.

More children began to stand, and followed after her. Covered in soot and soaked from ice-melt, shivering in their coats despite the heat of the cabin.

It took all of a glance around the room to know that the girl had consistently practiced her magic since that day he’d advised her on how to better focus her mana. She had taken his advice to heart and built upon it, and with that she had kept her friends safe by keeping the fire from advancing into the room. But there were no windows in the room, and had he not intervened, the smoke would have choked out whatever remained of the air and claimed their lives.

It was a strange thing, the sudden weight in his chest.

She looked up at him, wiping at the soot on her face with blistered fingers. “We were hiding from the dragon, but then the fire — it was _everywhere_. I tried to keep it back, Mister Solas. But then the beams came down, and I didn’t — I couldn’t—”

Solas calmed her by laying his hand atop her head, and assured, “You did well, Audra.”

Cassandra began to herd the children out the door, as she urged, “Come — it isn’t safe here.”

As he walked amongst the children, he was struck once more by the finite nature of mortals — of how their lives were gossamer stretched across the void, and so easily torn from the mortal coil.

Solas worked to maintain the barrier over the children and Cassandra, as well as himself, as they backtracked out of the cabin. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the Herald waiting for them, idling just inside despite the Seeker’s insistence that she wait outside for her own safety.

Cassandra merely huffed in irritation, “Help me get them out.”

The two women worked to lift the smaller children up over the rubble, handing them off to Varric. Cassandra helped the last child climb over, who was limping from a leg injury. Tephra followed after, but stopped atop the rubble to turn and offer her hand to assist him.

He took it, and let her haul him up alongside her.

She squeezed his hand, briefly, as she said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

“That was never in question,” he assured, his hold on her lingering as long as she allowed it.

Her hand slipped from his as she departed to follow after the Seeker, and left him feeling bereft.

Haven continued to fall all around them as they ushered the children out of the cabin to safety.

But what was safety? A few more moments here in the waking world, before their short lives were snuffed out by another means? And the Herald—

Ahead of him, gently handling the children as she aided them in climbing down the rubble. With a tenderness she hoarded to herself, except with little ones.

He knew with startling clarity that the loss of her would have been the loss of his very own heart.

Somewhere along the way, the two of them had become entangled — had become inseparable to him.

That sudden realization left him shaken and stunned, as he climbed down to the street below.

He could not lose her, and each moment they lingered felt as though poised on an abyss with no certainty of survival in sight. It took all of his self-control to remain with his companions, and to not simply abscond with the Herald and order a retreat of his own agents. He was caught in the flux between trusting her to surmount the unbelievable odds stacked against her to survive this attack and the certainty of fleeing.

Still, he could not abandon those of Haven to such a horrible end. But this wasn’t an event he could watch from a safe distance, such as he could in the Fade of events long since passed. There was no means of going over each mistake, or exhausting each possible outcome, before acting. There was no time to calculate each plausible risk, nor time to form contingencies to account for each hypothetical variable or outcome.

He could only face what came, in the moment it happened, and hope for the best. Could only place his trust in her, and those around him, to survive this.

It was a mad hope — betting against insurmountable odds — but with the Herald leading them, it was almost easy to believe that they would survive this.

And for her, he would stay and face whatever may come.

 

 

 

———

 

 

 

Most of the children of were unharmed, but for a few. One of the older girls had a penetrative wound that had been crudely bandaged by cloth torn from her own cloak. Cassandra carried one on her hip, who was disoriented from a head wound.

And one little boy sat in the snow, dazed and silent, with grievous burns to his face. He stared at nothing, with wide eyes.

Whatever was left in her to feel grief, or despair, abandoned her.

All that remained was rage.

There was no mercy in her for those who would attack children.

She scooped him up into her arms, and followed after the others along the road to the chantry.

They found the courtyard littered with the dead.

The heavy fall of ash and snow made it difficult to tell the templars from their own people, save for the ghastly red eruptions of blighted lyrium jutting from their bodies. Far behind, she could hear the dragon clattering across rooftops, busy at its terrible work in reducing the town to burning ruins.

Chancellor Roderick stood at the entrance of the chantry, clutching his stomach as he ushered the last of the survivors inside. His robes were soaked in so much blood that she wasn’t certain how he was still standing.

As she neared the entrance, she handed the boy in her arms off to an awaiting medic, “Please see to him — it’s urgent.”

“We’ll do what we can, my lady,” the medic assured, before carrying the boy inside.

Tephra stopped at the door, to look back out over the town.

_This place was a shelter, and now it is a grave._

Was there anyone living left out there?

The young man, who named himself Cole, stepped quietly beside her and followed her gaze. “There is no one else,” he said.

“You’re certain?”

She needed certainty.

“I can’t hear the dead. Only the red templars remain,” he assured.

“Then we must shut the doors,” the Chancellor urged, as he moved from where he leaned against the wall.

Tephra averted her gaze from the bloodstain he’d left there.

As Roderick made his way inside, his legs buckled from beneath him. Cole moved in an unearthly manner — one moment beside her, the next catching the wounded man in his arms and helping him to a nearby chair.

She found herself gaping at the youth, with a strange mix of awe and nostalgia.

“He tried to stop a templar. The blade went deep,” Cole informed. “He’s going to die.”

“What a charming boy,” Roderick mused, with a breathless laugh.

It was strange, the feeling in her chest, when she looked at him. A strange stitch between her ribs, at once familiar and forgotten.

Tephra reached to lift the brim of his hat, ever so slightly, as she asked, “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

Sullen eyes met hers, as he fidgeted with his fingers, “Yes?”

He didn’t look much older than what her brother would have been, if he’d lived.

She thought of the night she’d seen him here in Haven, when they were burning their dead.

 _He followed from the fire_. That is what he’d said to her that night, and when he disappeared she had thought she was losing her mind.

But here he was, as real as anyone around her.

“You’ve been following me,” she stated, not unkindly. “Why?”

His gaze was lost beneath the fall of his pale blond hair, as he lilted, “You help people. You made them safe when they would have died. I want to do that. I can help.”

“Then stay, and help us,” she replied, without an ounce of doubt shadowing her decision.

When she turned, she found that Solas was watching her with a strange expression — as he often did — but she was too exhausted to decipher whether it was approval or disapproval she saw there in the guarded calm of his expression.

Instead, she turned her focus to his bloodied, torn sleeve. When she reached for his arm, he offered it with no resistance. She peeled back the fabric and was greeted by the sight of a thick cautery mark running off-center along his outer forearm. He’d effectively stopped the bleeding, but there was still risk for infection.

“You’re off to a bad start with the whole not-dying thing,” she noted, inspecting his cauterization work.

“You say as though you did not just attempt to throw yourself upon a pyre,” he replied, dryly.

Tephra shifted her backpack to one shoulder, and sorted through one of the smaller pockets until she found a small jar of wound-cleaning salve. “A cabin isn’t a pyre,” she countered, as she applied a generous layer of the salve to the entirety of the burn.

“Not traditionally, no,” Solas conceded, with muted amusement.

When she finished cleaning the wound, she wound a clean bandage around his forearm and tied it firmly. “That’ll have to do for now.”

He fixed her with a shuttered gaze, as he inclined his head, “Ma serranas, Herald.”

Whatever that look was supposed to impart, she didn’t have the time to interpret it as the Commander charged towards her with an air of urgency.

“Herald, our position is not good,” Cullen informed, in a grave tone. “That dragon stole back any time you might have bought us. There has been no communication, no demands. Only advance after advance.”

Cole spoke up, from where he crouched beside the Chancellor’s chair, “I've seen an archdemon. I was in the Fade, but it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it looks like!” the Commander snapped in frustration, before turning his attention back to her. “It’s cut a path for that army, and they’ll kill everyone in Haven.”

“The Elder One doesn't care about the village,” Cole continued, in earnest. “He only wants the Herald.”

 _Of course he has_.

Why would it be anything less?

The mark in her hand flickered erratically, restless in her palm.

She looked to Cole, “Will it save our people, if I gave myself over to him?”

Many of her companions and advisers spoke at once, but the strange young man cut them off into silence.

“It won’t,” he replied. “He wants to kill you. No one else matters, but he'll crush them, kill them anyway.” Vehemently, he added, “I don't like him.”

“You don’t like—” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed in exasperation, before turning his focus back to her, “Herald, there are no tactics to make this survivable. The only thing that slowed them was the avalanche. We could turn the remaining trebuchets, and cause one more slide.”

Tephra frowned, “We’re already overrun. To hit the army, we’d—”

Bury the town.

“We're dying, but we can decide how,” Cullen advised. “Many don't get that choice.”

Stricken, she looked beyond them and towards the milling crowds of civilians packed further into the chantry. Many of them were young, not much more than youths.

When did they take in so many children?

She clutched at her coat, seeking the shell that hung there. How had she ever believed that she could keep them safe?

“Chancellor Roderick can help,” Cole informed, breaking the heavy silence which had fallen. “He wants to say it before he dies.”

“There is a path,” the man informed, in a breathless tone. His face had gone deathly pale, and it seemed by sheer will alone that he remained conscious. “You wouldn’t know it unless you’d made the summer pilgrimage — as I have. They can escape.”

The Chancellor’s focus was on her as he struggled to bring himself to his feet, aided by Cole, “She must have shown me. Andraste must have shown me so I could tell you. It was whim that I walked the path. I did not mean to start — it was overgrown, forgotten. Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one who remembers — I don’t know, Herald. If this simple memory can save us, this could be more than mere accident.” He searched her face as though he were only now seeing her for the first time. Regret etched heavy lines in his own, as he said, “You could be more.”

It was a better chance than anything she could have hoped for.

It was better than waiting to die, huddled together in the chantry.

She turned to the Commander once more, “What about it, Cullen? Will it work?”

“Possibly, if he shows us the path,” he answered, in a cautious tone. He regarded her with a tight expression, as he asked, “But what of your escape?”

The hall was eerily silent, and the many faces of the civilians and soldiers, her companions and advisers were turned to her.

 _They are my clan now_.

The thought came suddenly to her, heavy and unbidden.

Whatever she’d been before the Conclave, whatever her life had been — it was over. It was still a part of her, a part of her identity, but these people were her people now.

They had become hers the moment she’d decided that no one would ever lay hand on them again.

“The Elder One came for me, but I don’t intend to make it easy for him,” Tephra assured, forcing an air of confidence that she didn’t feel.

The decision was hers to make, and it was the first she’d made for herself since this whole mess had started.

It was a means of wresting back control over her own fate, even if it likely meant her end.

“Perhaps you will surprise it,” the Commander offered, with a hopefulness that didn't quite reach his eyes. “If anyone can find a way, it would be you.”

There was a strange tension in her gut as she purposefully avoided the gazes of her companions and turned to Josephine, “We have no time to prepare. We take what carry, and leave the rest. Whatever provisions are here in the chantry will have to do for now.”

The Antivan woman regarded her with a practiced calm, however it was frayed at the edges and cracked her voice, as she noted, “Perhaps the outlying farms remain untouched. There will be horses, druffalo, supplies. We will send scouting parties ahead to retrieve them.”

“Take care of them,” she bid, in a tone far too steady as the tension in her gut was quickly turning to a torrent of emotion.

Josephine frowned, “This is not—” She topped herself just as quickly as her anger came, and sighed, “I will.”

Tephra did not watch her go.

If she stopped to look back in this moment, or the next — or all that followed after until the end — she was certain she would lose her nerve.

Roderick was leaning heavily on Cole, as the youth helped him along. He stopped long enough, to catch the sleeve of her coat, “Herald, if you are meant for this, if the Inquisition is meant for this — I pray for you.”

The Commander returned with a small group of soldiers. They were armed, and armored.

She knew even before she asked, yet she persisted, “What’s all this?”

“Volunteers,” Cullen replied. “They’ll escort you, and load the trebuchet.”

Among them was a medic, whom she recognized as the Dalish elf from the Anderfels — Kazem.

If the others were going to survive, they would need every healer available to them, mage or non-mage.

“Not the medic. Send him with the others,” she instructed.

Whatever meager confidence the Commander had regained for her survival, drained from his face as he asked, “You’re certain?”

“If I get to the point where I need a medic, then I’ve already lost,” Tephra mused, with dark humor. “There’s no use wasting two lives for one.”

Kazem stepped forward, “If you’ll forgive the insubordination, I’m good for more than just stitching wounds.” As though to accentuate his point, his hands moved to rest on the hilts of the twin short swords hanging from his belt.

They were marvels of Dalish craftsmanship, unmistakably of the Anderfels clans, and she regretted that she had no time to inspect them closer.

And having one of her own with her, at the end, was a strange comfort.

“If you insist,” she conceded. “Vir suledin sa’vunin.”

“Vir suledin sa’vunin,” he agreed.

“All you have to do is keep the Elder One’s attention until we’re above the tree line,” Cullen explained.

“Oh, is that all?” she jested, grimly.

“If we are to have a chance — if you are to have a chance — let that thing hear you.”

When the Commander turned to go, she grasped his arm and urged, “Make it count. Get them safe.”

With a solemn nod, he assured, “With my life, Herald.”

As the soldiers ushered civilians and refugees back toward the other end of the chantry, her companions idled.

 _They mean to go with me_.

Tephra shook her head, and gestured for them to follow the others, “No, you’re all going with them.”

“Like hell I am,” Dorian snapped, with enough outrage to send her back a step in surprise. His wounded gaze darted away and he gave a short, sharp sigh. With that, all of his anger deflated, as he simply said, “You cannot ask me to leave you to face that maniac alone.”

She wanted them safe, and away from whatever was coming.

“I can, and I am. I trust you to keep them safe,” Tephra replied, keeping her tone steady and firm.

“And who will keep you safe? If you die—”

“I know how important the mark is,” she bit back, in a bruised tone.

“The Void take your fucking mark!” Dorian took hold of her then, first cupping her elbows, then moving to take her hands into his own. “If you die, I’ll have lost a dear friend and be left alone here with the lot of them, and that just won’t do.”

Tephra wanted to deck him for making her heart seize with such affection. Instead, she pulled away, as though burned.

Dorian cleared his throat as he regained his composure, before giving her a devil-may-care smile, “And really, an archdemon? Rather droll, don’t you think? Considering we’ve traveled through time — _twice_. This Elder One has to work a bit harder to impress me.”

Cassandra unshouldered her shield, and drew her sword, “And how do you mean to turn the trebuchet on your own without help?”

They had been forced to take turns turning the wheel crank of the trebuchets, given the chaotic nature of the fighting. She was half-certain the crank on her trebuchet had been rusty.

It hadn’t been _that_ difficult. She’d got the job done, in the end.

Tephra scowled, “Well, I’d—”

Cassandra slammed the flat of her sword against her shield, “And who is to keep your enemies off your back while you do it?”

Her mouth opened, then shut once more.

She was furious, but the woman was right.

With the soldiers loading the payload, and her turning the crank, it left no one to actually fend off an attack.

“No worries, Boss. We’ll keep the buzzards off your back,” Bull assured, hefting his massive greatsword over a shoulder.

Blackwall followed the Seeker’s lead, as he hefted his shield from where he’d left it sitting against a pillar, “Time to be big fucking heroes and all that, right?”

There was a distant ringing in her ears, as everything began to slip from her control.

And when had she’d grown so arrogant as to think it was ever within her control? The world did not bother to deal in subtleties with her, and all of the lessons she’d learned in her life had come at brutal cost. One of her earliest lessons had been that death was an errant, unpredictable guest for which she could never prepare for.

Tephra knew by their expressions that they were coming with her, and nothing she could say would deter them.

She’d killed a world to keep them safe, but now that didn’t matter anymore. They would follow her into the end of this mess, and she couldn’t stop them.

“Do you recall what I told you, back at the chateau?” Vivienne asked, as walked past her towards the door. Her perfume smelled of flowers for which Tephra had no name for. “I do not mean to die meekly, my dear. I mean to meet my enemy, face to face. I am the one who decides my fate — however it ends.”

Sera bumped her shoulder into her own as she passed, and offered a forced grin, “Whatever happens, we go down fighting, yeah? I’m not stopping even if I run out of arrows.”

_“I ran out of arrows making them pay.”_

The memory was a dagger, straight to her lung.

“Chin up, Snowflake. It’s only a dragon,” Varric deadpanned.

“And an army,” Bull mused.

“And whatever the friggin’ hell that Elder Fuck is,” Sera grumbled, as she snagged extra arrows from a passing soldier.

It took considerable effort to block out the memory of their words, and yet still they found their way back to her in this world.

“Whatever comes, we’re with you, Herald,” Cassandra assured, waiting at the door for her.

Echoes from a dead world.

_“Be strong for us, Herald. Whatever comes, you will not face it alone.”_

And once more, at the end, she found that she wasn’t.

She had wanted to send them away, to keep them safe, and yet a part of her was grateful that she didn’t have to go back out there alone.

Still, out of all of them, she had wanted to send Solas away. To conjure up some excuse to force him to leave with the rest, to ensure his survival. But he was too perceptive to fall for any ruse she might weave, and too stubborn to politely indulge her.

When she turned her gaze to his, she knew without a doubt that he would follow her into the catastrophe awaiting them outside the chantry.

Solas said nothing, only watched her with a tight expression, brows knitted with concern, and yet his words were with her still.

 _“_ _I am with you until the end. In this world, and the next.”_

She felt at once a great sense of tenderness, and useless futile anger.

 _I should have told him_ , she thought to herself, bitterly.

If she survived, she would.

If he survived—

Tephra moved to step close to the Seeker, close enough to speak without the others hearing, “Whatever happens, get them out safe. The Elder One is only here for me, and I won’t have anyone else dying because of it.

Cassandra frowned, “I gave my word that I would not abandon you. Not even at the end.”

Tephra clasped the woman’s arm, and hoped that she sounded more reassuring than she felt, “This is not the end, and I don’t mean to die today.”

“No one ever does,” Cassandra informed. “Yet death comes for us all in the end.”

Tephra’s grip on the woman’s arm tightened. “I mean it, Cassandra. If things go sideways, you get them out safe. Do it for me.”

There was a tense moment of silence, before the Seeker conceded, “As you command, Herald.”

When she moved for the door, the soldiers idling there moved to open the heavy doors to let her pass. Cold night air scoured her face, heavy with the scent of ash.

Whatever was waiting for her out there, she knew that she wouldn’t face it alone.

If this was truly the end, whatever came for them, she would make it count.

She did not look back as she said, “If I don’t get another chance to say this, I want you all to know that I’m glad that I’ve met all of you. It’s been an honor.”

Tephra did not wait for her companions to respond as she headed back out into the fray.

 

 

 

———

 

 

 

It should not have surprised her that the red templars would have taken the remaining trebuchet, not after such an effective first blow. Reinforcements flooded the choke point behind them, which had been hastily erected in the road by the soldiers whose bodies now littered the platform the trebuchet stood on.

The sudden influx forced a split amongst them as most of her companions turned back to meet the rush of enemies surging in from behind, while the rest rushed the platform to reclaim the trebuchet.

Tephra ducked down at the base of the platform, and put her back to the structure. She emptied her quiver and quickly jammed her remaining arrows into the snow in a haphazard row at her side.

Her hands were shaking as she readied an arrow, and scanned the chaos for a target.

When was the last time she’d eaten a proper meal? All she could recall of late was the abundance of mead available to her upon request.

Knuckles-white, she loosed.

The arrow skimmed her target and glanced uselessly off of the templar’s armor.

_Pissing hell._

She snatched another arrow up from the snow, and nocked. Ignoring the burn of sweat and ash in her sight, she let her focus whittle the world away to nothing but what lay beyond the tip of her arrow.

When an unguarded throat presented itself, she let the arrow fly.

The templar stumbled, sputtering red as he sank to his knees.

The Iron Bull turned mid-sweep with his great ax, with far more grace and ease than anyone his size should have, and cut the templar down where he sat in the snow. A single blow frenzied blow from the qunari and the templar’s chest was completely caved in. Bull jerked his weapon free of broken armor and shattered ribs, before spinning off back into the fray and cutting down anything in his path.

Above her, she could hear the clanking of metal as the trebuchet was slowly moved into position. If one of her companions was able to work the crank, it surely meant that the platform had been cleared of enemies. A small relief, but the others were cornered at the chokepoint by a fresh wave of red templars.

Everything around her was pounding. Swords on swords, spell against spell. Her heart in her chest, and the blood in her head. A messy, arrhythmic din that seemed to grip every inch of her sweaty, aching body.

She wanted a drink.

She wanted ten drinks.

In fact, at that particular moment, she could probably have drunk every damned beer in the town, and still had room for a swift whisky after.

But such things would have to wait. Right now, all there was for her to focus on was to fight — to survive.

The bellow of the archdemon tore through her entire being.

Tephra fumbled the arrow she was nocking, as her attention was immediately drawn to the sky.

The stream of dragonfire beelined for the barrels of pitch stacked near the trebuchet, which burst upon contact.

Fire consumed everything in her sight.

She scrambled back against the base of the platform, and clambered on all fours as she tried to escape the blistering heat. The sudden white-hot pain of cinders burrowing through her coat and armor sent her rolling in the snow in an attempt to extinguish it.

Others were jumping from the platform, and from what she could see from where she lay in the snow a good portion of the structure had been set ablaze. The trebuchet was untouched by the archdemon’s fire, but it would not remain so for long.

As the others scrambled to rejoin and aid their companions, Cassandra stooped to yank Tephra up from the snow by the collar of her coat, “Hurry! Before it comes back!”

The red templars were forcing her companions back through the choke point, and away from the trebuchet. The road behind them was empty.

If they fled now, they might be able to make it out before the mountain came down.

She pushed at the Seeker, “Go — get them out!”

“Tephra—”

“Someone has to fire the trebuchet,” she reminded, in earnest. In her peripheral, Tephra could see the archdemon circling and moving to descend once more. “If the army remains, no one is safe.”

The hard line of Cassandra’s brow softened, as comprehension set in. She clasped Tephra’s arm tightly, as she said, “May you act with the Maker’s favor and walk into darkness, unafraid.”

Tephra put her free hand to the woman’s shoulder, and assured, “I’ll find another way out when it’s done.”

The Seeker gave a sharp nod, as she regained her composure and shifted her focus to the task at hand. She took off after the others without a single glance back.

The others were too busy with the templars to realize she wasn’t coming, and she could only put her faith in Cassandra to see that they would retreat without her when they finally did. She tried to find him among the press of her companions ringed by attacking templars, if only to meet his gaze, but she couldn’t find him amongst the clamor.

She shook away the strange sense of loss, as she assured herself that this wasn’t the end. That all she needed to do was to launch the payload, and then haul ass out of Haven. She would regroup with her people.

She would see him again.

All she needed to do was to launch the payload, and then haul ass out of Haven.

As she made her way up the stairs of the platform, she stopped to check the bodies for any weapon she could use, as her bow had been lost to her in the mad scramble to avoid the fire. Finding nothing but too-heavy swords and maces, she continued up to the trebuchet.

Halfway up, she stooped over a dead red templar. When she tugged his coat open to check for a dagger at his belt, the man gave a ragged gasp and grabbed hold of her. Eyes rolled back and gurgling blood, the man held to her like a vice as she tried to grapple free. Her foot slipped on the icy step beneath her and she felt the white-hot jab of pain as her ankle twisted. The sudden lurch of her body sent them both tumbling down the steps in a heap.

Overhead, the bellow of the archdemon signaled its return.

Panic flared through her as she thought of her companions, still locked in combat at the chokepoint.

As she struggled to release herself from the dying man’s grip, she realized that he wasn’t attacking her, simply pulling her close as he rasped incoherently. Tephra stilled, heart hammering in her ears and she leaned closer to catch what he was trying to say.

“Mercy. _Please._ ”

His wounds were mortal, but his death was a lingering one.

 _Mercy_ , she agreed, and slipped his dagger through the hollow of his throat.

Tephra pulled herself free and staggered to her feet, shaking and stumbling and she reoriented herself. The world was burning around her as she looked for her companions, only to see the dragon swoop low and its fire burning a path straight for them.

The barriers rose — magic from different sources weaving together in blues and silvers and shimmering lavender — just as the group of swarming templars around them were engulfed. The bodies blackened to ash before they hit the ground.

For one staggered moment, she could see them huddled inside — safe, untouched by the fire — before the barriers shattered.

The shockwave of displaced magic took her off her feet and sent her tumbling through the air. She landed in a bone-jarring heap, head snapping back against the gravel.

Her sight washed white, and the rushing in her ears was the same as when she was under the water, reaching for her brother.

For a moment, she could see him there just beyond her reach.

Tephra groaned as she rolled onto her side, and the world came rushing back to her. All the white slipped away, and there was only fire.

And beyond it, a being beyond comprehension, striding towards her in no hurried fashion — striding as one who belabored themself a god would.

Whatever he’d been before, he was monstrous now. Skeletal and wraith-like and twisted to a staggering height, he was an amalgam of red lyrium and blighted flesh.

As she struggled to her feet, the dragon came thundering in behind her. She stumbled back from the creature as it came skidding to a halt in the ash and snow. She instinctively raised her hands, for all the good it served. Its glimmering red eyes fixed on the mark in her hand, burning through the leather of her glove. It trumpeted its outrage that she bore the mark its master sought, and stalked closer as though it meant to take it back itself.

“Enough!”

She felt a strange rush of air energy push at her, as the air around her was displaced. The dragon stilled, and her attention shifted back to its master.

The flesh of his face, twisted by red lyrium, twisted further as he sneered, “Pretender. You toy with forces beyond your ken no more.”

It took all of her strength to keep her voice steady, “Whatever you are, I’m not afraid.”

“Words mortals often hurl at the darkness. Once, they were mine,” the Elder One mused. “They are always lies.”

She wasn’t sure that anything like him could have ever been anything like her. The thought that a person could be twisted so beyond what they once were sent ice running through her blood.

As he stepped closer, he continued, “Know me. Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One — the will that is Corypheus.” He raised one long arm to point threateningly at her, “You will kneel.”

Everything from the moment she first woke shivering in the prison cell beneath Haven’s chantry, from the Breach to the ruined future, from every inch gained with the closing of a rift to every staggering loss — all of it led her here.

Whatever her fear, the words of her people came back to her in that moment when her own words failed her.

 _We are the Dalish — keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.  
_ _We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit._

She met his gaze with the steel of her own, “Never _._ ”

It was only when she finally spoke that she noticed the silence which had fallen over Haven.

Standing in the shadow of the last standing trebuchet, cornered in by the dragon’s fire burning a tight wreath around them, she knew that there was nothing left beyond the flames but the dead.

“It matters not whether you kneel in life — or death,” the Elder One informed, as he brandished a strange orb from the depths of his tattered robes. Deep grooves ran in lines and whorls across its surface, and in the creature’s hand it sparked with strange red magic.

Distantly, she recalled tatters of Solas’s words, speaking of such an artifact.

 _So that is where the mark originated_ , Tephra mused. She idly wondered if she would live to report the information to anyone.

The would-be god continued, as the red energy began to crackle and arc through the air as the magic flared, “I am here for the Anchor. The process of removing it begins now.”

_Anchor?_

When the Elder One thrust his free hand towards her, the mark in her hand burst to life with an intensity that knifed its way through the entirety of her being and brought her shamefully to her knees. Red energy snaked the length of her arm and cinched like a vice.

Through the din of agony rushing through her ears, she heard him continue on as though he spoke not for her, but for some other — or perhaps, he simply spoke to his own ego, as she was in no position to appreciate his soliloquy.

“It is your fault, _Herald_. You interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying you stole its purpose. I do not know how you survived, but what marks you as “touched”, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens. And you used the Anchor to undo my work — the gall!”

She could barely focus on anything outside the pain, as she demanded, “What is this fucking thing meant to do?!”

But she already knew the answer, didn’t she?

She had seen it in that terrible dead future.

“It is supposed to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

Her vision blurred as the pain crescendoed. She felt a violent _tug_ through her being, as it seemed the Elder One meant to tear the mark from her even if it broke every last bone in her body.

And then all at once, it ceased.

The mark remained, burning in the cradle of her hand.

The Elder One was on her before her senses fully returned to her. He grabbed her wrist with crushing force and lifted her into the air as though she were nothing but a ragdoll, and brought her face close to his as he set off on another tirade, “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the Empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers.”

Her shoulder burned as the muscles strained to support the weight of her own body, as she struggled to follow Corypheus’s rant.

Breached the Fade?

She knew of no event in history like the Breach. Had he meant on a smaller scale? Had he used that strange orb, or a different means of magic?

“For a thousand years I was confused. No more. I have gathered the will the return under no name but my own. To champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world.”

 _Tevinter_.

Despite the precarious nature of her situation and the dismal odds of surviving it, her mind continued to latch onto each scrap of information the twisted creature gave. Anything that might be of use to her people.

“Beg that I succeed,” the Elder One advised as he drew her closer, arm coiled with tension as his grip tightened. “For I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.”

And then with a bone-snapping ferocity, he hurled her through the air. She felt something give in her shoulder with an unsettling snap, just before her body slammed into the framework of the trebuchet. Her head snapped against the wood just above her ear, and she felt the hot rush of blood down the side of her neck.

Dazed, she struggled to her feet, clutching at her shoulder. Her legs shook with effort, as what little remained of her strength dwindled and died.

“The anchor is permanent,” he surmised. As he began toward her, the dragon drew in beside him, lurking ever closer. “You have spoilt it with your stumbling. So be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation — and _god —_ it requires.”

His demented grandstanding was little more than a load of piss, as none of it mattered anymore.

The Breach was closed.

He had tried, and failed, to take the Anchor.

As she rested against the guardrail beside the crank wheel, the realization hit her.

If she died, then it would die with her.

A sudden, faint glimmer caught her eye.

Beyond the monstrosity and his dragon, far beyond what was left of the walls of Haven, a single flare took flight and burned a slow path through the night sky.

A ragged sigh tore itself free of her, and her sight blurred as relief washed over her.

It was done.

The people of Haven were safe beyond the trees in the foothills of the mountain, out of the path of the trebuchet.

“And you,” the Elder One hissed — a fricative sound, like sandpaper rustling against itself — as he seized her by the throat and crushed her against the railing behind her. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You _must_ die.”

She clawed ineffectually at the flesh of his hand with gloved hands. She felt her throat begin to close and panic creep in, but she pushed it away as she calmed herself.

 _They are safe_ , she reminded herself.

He was safe.

Tephra braced a boot against the crank wheel, and shifted her hip to brace her body against the railing for maximum leverage.

“You first,” she rasped, and kicked with all her strength.

As gears and pulleys began to click and clank around them, Corypheus released her as realization set in.

Above them, the trebuchet loosed its payload.

The Elder One made a sound of disgust, as he was forced to retreat. He mounted the dragon, and took flight.

The mountain wouldn’t claim him, but it would claim what remained of his army that still lurked in Haven and its environs.

There was nothing left to do, but to run.

It seemed such a futile thing to do, as nowhere in Haven would be safe from the impending deluge of snow and rock.

Yet still, she ran.

It was an entirely primal response — an unthinking, automatic function of self-preservation, however fruitless. The way a body forced itself to gasp for air just before death, even though the spirit had passed.

There was a gut-wrenching clamor behind her and the world seemed to break and shatter beneath the weight of the avalanche, but she dared not look back. She launched herself free of the platform where the trebuchet sat, just as the deafening roar of impact filled her ears. She tumbled blindly, and felt her body propelled through shattering planks, as snow and dirt choked her senses.

The world went black as she felt herself driven down into the earth, buried beneath the mountain she’d brought down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do forgive the heavy usage of in-game dialogue, but given that this is a critical part of the plot, it remains included. Also, apologies with the slowness of updating. I'm back to full-time work, so I have precious little free time to write.
> 
> There is much meta and in-game lore surrounding the true nature of the Old Ones, (and the Forgotten Ones), which I’m taking some liberties with. [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x73W0b7IYEU%22html_images.asp%22) banter between Solas and Cassandra adds to my suspicion, as well. This will be furthered explored and expanded on in the future.
> 
> Vir suledin sa’vunin. — May we endure one more day. (Possibly, I’m taking liberties with the language here.)
> 
> p.s. I’m thirsty for feedback, y’all. Like that thing I did in that one scene? Did I get something terribly wrong about x/y/z? Feel free to tell me all about it.


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